


Dripping

by AnnaofAza



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fantasizing, Fluff, Harry Hart is a Little Shit, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage, Masturbation, More plot than porn, Pining, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Romantic Tension, Sexual Tension, Showers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 13:08:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 40,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5292041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eggsy stops right in the middle of the path, Roxy nearly bumping straight into him, as he watches Harry climb out of the lake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“For your next stage of training, your endurance and speed will be tested,” Merlin announces. “Be at the Kingsman pool facilities in a half an hour. Leave your things in the adjoining locker room. It’s right past the lake, can’t miss it. Dismissed.”

Nodding, the recruits file off, some already packing towels and swimsuits into bags. Merlin’s already set out Kingsman-issued swimming gear on their beds, and Eggsy’s wondering if he'll ever be allowed to wear his old clothes again when Charlie manages to catch his eye and sneer.

“You know how to swim, _Eggy?”_ Charlie asks. “Shame. I’d love to see you drown.”

“And I’d love for you to choke to death during supper tonight, but we can’t have everything, I suppose.”

“Leave him alone, you lot,” Roxy snaps, already swinging her things over her shoulder. “Can you not be a prat for ten seconds, or is it in your job description?”

 _“Oooh,"_ Charlie's mates sneer, all in unison.

“Roxy your girlfriend, Eggy?” Charlie then mocks. “Or do you prefer the other sort?”

“Fuck off,” Eggsy retorts, turning away.

“Let’s walk together, then,” Roxy says lowly, as the group lets out a bout of snickers. “I’d rather warm up a little beforehand. Unless…you want to see Galahad?”

Eggsy shakes his head, heading for the door. “I’m seeing him later this evening.”

“You know we’re not supposed to interact with our sponsors.”

“You didn’t say anything about that when I was sneaking out to visit him—“

“Because he was in a _coma_ , Eggsy.”

“What, you’re worried about me wheedling answers out of him? Cheating?”

“Of course not,” Roxy snaps, as they exit the mansion and start walking to the pool. “I just think, well, of you getting caught. Charlie almost found that little stash of Twinkies and wine last night—with Galahad’s note _in his handwriting_. You think he wouldn’t report you and try to get you kicked out? After you made it to the final six?”

“He would,” Eggsy agrees, with an irritated sigh. “He has it out for me; he’s such a—” His impending rant about classist pricks is interrupted by a ripple in the middle of the lake. “Do you see that?” He points, just as the water’s surface is disturbed again. “What’s that?”

“The Loch Ness Monster lives in Scotland.”

“Rox! You’re—oh.”

Eggsy stops right in the middle of the path, Roxy nearly bumping straight into him, as he watches Harry climb out of the lake. He’s only wearing swimming trunks—red, like his robe—and _curls._ Eggsy’s never seen Harry without his fancy pomade, dark brown hair smoothed back or in a careful part, so this disarray makes Harry look…softer, almost gentler. And stripped of his suit, Harry could be a regular bloke, someone Eggsy could approach on the street—

Except, of course, there’s no mistake that Harry isn’t an ordinary man—his stomach and chest have both faded and vicious-looking scars, with toned limbs and pecs that can probably shatter steel. Even when recently dragged from a coma, Harry looks as if he’s ready to grab a Kingsman umbrella and go rough up some bad guys.

“Galahad, looking good,” Eggsy comments, winking, hoping that Roxy and Harry won’t pay attention to his flushed cheeks.

“ _Feeling_ good, Eggsy,” Harry replies dryly, looking amused. At the corner of Eggsy’s peripheral vision, he sees Roxy roll her eyes.

“What are you doing in the lake?”

“It’s a lovely day,” Harry replies mildly. “Shame to waste it in the indoor facilities. I presume that’s where you’re both heading off to?”

“Yes, sir,” Roxy says. “Training.”

“Well, best of luck.” Harry inclines his head in Eggsy’s direction, smiling. Eggsy wants to say something in reply, but can only sort of give an awkward jerk of his head and smile back, trying not to look at Harry. It’s hard, though. Harry’s trunks are so bright red that it’s almost like a magnet, or a sign that screams _danger danger._ Not to mention that since Harry just came out of the lake, they’re clinging to his thighs and—

 _“Eggsy,_ come on, we’re going to be late,” Roxy calls, already strolling down the path, and without looking back, Eggsy runs after her.

* * *

  _“Where are my fucking clothes?”_

There’s a riff of laughter coming from the showers, and Eggsy wants to storm in and confront those pricks, but he’s too exhausted from Kingsman’s brutal underwater obstacle course to bother.

“That dickhead,” Eggsy mutters, kicking half-heartedly near his empty locker.

Roxy shoots him a sympathetic look, already dressed with a towel around her shoulders. “Do you want to tell Merlin?”

“No, it’s just Charlie being petty. ‘Sides, I have others.” Though growing up pinching pennies had drummed into him the value of clothes—and how if he lost a jacket at school or needed a new pair of jeans, he and his mum would have to tighten their belts for a while. Annoyed, Eggsy sighs. “I’m just going to head over to the dormitories and take a shower there.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“It’s okay, Rox, go beat the others to supper. Save me a seat?”

“Will do.” Roxy pats his arm. “Don’t worry about them; they’re just jealous.”

Eggsy scoffs. “Ugh, whatever. I can’t wait until our next test; the sooner they’re gone, the better.” He wraps a towel around himself and waves to Roxy as he heads outside.

He hears the pattering of water and wonders, _shit, is it raining?,_ but looking up, there’s no storm clouds or rain drops. He feels wetness at his feet—not dripping, but flowing underneath and around his feet. When Eggsy looks down, water’s trickling in a steady stream on the ground, and he follows the trail up the slope of the concrete when—

He sees Harry. Behind a concrete wall. With zero modesty. Showering.

This is the part where Eggsy should turn away and pretend he never saw him, but instead, he freezes in place, fingers clutching at his towel.

He’s lying if he says he’s never thought of Harry in _that_ way—thought of Harry pulling him into the dressing room and kissing him hard against the trifold mirror—thought of Harry coming to the range and pulling him up against his back to help him shoot—thought of Harry opening the door of one of Kingsman's utility closets and helping him out of his stupid tartan suit—

Just then, Harry looks over his shoulder and _winks_ at him.

Flushing so dark red that Eggsy can probably be used as a space heater on a cold day, he flees.

* * *

 When he reaches the dormitories, Eggsy strips off his swimming trunks and reaches for the tap. Water—perfectly hot—pours down his body. Eggsy sighs, looking over his shoulder at the empty room. Privacy was a luxury at his flat, but at the very least, it had a private bathroom. Sure, the showers were communal in army training, but Eggsy still didn’t like standing naked beside people who made rude comments about him every day—including in the shower.

And there’s another thing, too, about the lack of privacy…

Eggsy again checks behind him to confirm that the room is empty, before taking a hold of his cock with a soapy hand.

Closing his eyes, Eggsy’s mind drifts to coy lasses and curly-haired lads and both, as he slowly begins to move his hand up and down—

And sees Harry arching his back, eyes closed, as water runs down his bare chest and wets his damp curls. Unconsciously, Eggsy mimics this, throwing his head back and trying not to gasp too loudly in the empty room. He mentally tracks the water down Harry’s chest and back and thighs, watching fat droplets roll down bare skin—slightly tanner than he’d thought, despite Eggsy’s assumption that Harry wore suits all the time, with alternating silver and tan scars. What would it be like to run his fingers over those, to ask about each one, to press his lips against them after each story?

He increases his strokes, imagining getting in that outdoor shower and reaching for Harry’s cock, not his own. Smirking up at Harry, eyes coy, asking, “Need a hand with that?” as he _jerks_ his own hand, roughly. Harry throwing his head back, eyes closing, breath coming out in shallow gasps, as his other hand grabs Eggsy’s shoulder for balance. Harry’s grip tightening, nails digging into his skin as Eggsy whispers sweet, filthy things about standing out in the open and wanting to be noticed and not being such a gentleman after all. Eggsy’s breathless laughter cut off by Harry’s lips crashing onto his. And Harry shuddering and shutting his eyes tight and pressing harder against Eggsy’s mouth as—

Eggsy comes with an embarrassingly loud shout, clapping his left hand over his mouth too late when the burst of _“Harry”_ escapes his lips. Looking down at himself, startled, Eggsy watches come run down his legs and drip onto the floor, slipping down the drain with water and soap. He’s breathing heavily, mind still fuzzy, a remaining image from his fantasy belatedly playing out in his head—him and Harry clutching at each other, limp and laughing underneath the spray, sharing a last, strangely slow, sweet kiss…

Leaning his forehead against the wall, Eggsy breathes, _“Shit.”_

As he turns off the shower, hearing the remaining water drip onto the tiles, Eggsy snatches a towel off one of the hooks, refusing to look at his state in the mirror. Instead, he’s going to change, get supper, maybe study a little before bed, and—

Harry Hart is standing in the doorway, curls still damp from his shower and in a white-button shirt, buttons undone at the top. Eggsy can see a hint of a smirk on his lips.

“You called?”


	2. Chapter 2

This conversation is inevitable. 

It doesn't mean that Eggsy wants to have it with just a towel wrapped around his waist, while Harry is  _still_ standing there, smirking and fully clothed and standing in  _the fucking open doorway._

"Harry!" Eggsy hisses, rushing over, tugging Harry forward, and slamming the heavy door shut. "What are you  _doing_ here?" 

"You rushed away so quickly. I had to be certain that you were all right." 

His face is perfectly straight, but the tiniest hint of a smile is in his voice. When Harry crosses his arms over his chest, Eggsy notices that his sleeves have been rolled up to his elbows.  _Fuck._ He isn't some repressed Victorian—he's seen tits and arses and bare skin before—but somehow,  _Harry's_ arms, well-muscled enough to lift around twenty-three kilos or, hell, Eggsy himself, make Eggsy want to sink to his knees a little bit. 

And judging by the raised eyebrow, Eggsy's certain that Harry knows this. 

"I'm all right," Eggsy says, defensively. "Just...tired." 

"You do look rather tired. Have you been working hard?" 

Was it just Eggsy, or did Harry put a little inflection on that last word? Eggsy clutches tighter to his towel, as if it is the last fucking barrier to his—his—innocence? _No, not all all._ Honor? Dignity? "It's been a long day, I guess." 

Before Eggsy can say anything else, hopefully, something more intelligent, Harry steps forward and runs a thumb over Eggsy's bottom lip. Eggsy freezes, trying not to close his eyes as Harry moves the digit back and forth, once, slowly. "You're wet." 

Eggsy rolls his eyes. "Being in the water for most of the day tends to do that." 

Harry only smirks, like Charlie would, but instead of making his face ugly and weaselly, it makes him look almost...devious. And handsome as fuck. "And your muscles are sore, aren't they?" 

"They are," Eggsy says, wondering what will be coming next. Harry's thumb is still in its place, and he's self-consciously aware of how his lips brush the tip of the calloused pad with every word he speaks. He wonders what will happen if he decided to bite it, just a little nip, and if Harry would yank away, smirk, and say something like  _manners, Eggsy._ Fuck, he probably would. 

Harry then moves his hand to rest on Eggsy's shoulder and giving it a squeeze. "I used to be in training to be a doctor before Kingsman. I know something about soothing aching muscles." He glances down at Eggsy's barely-clothed body, eyes looking as if they're trying to assess every muscle, every line, every curve. "And you're already...dressed for the occasion." 

Eggsy's bloody tempted, but glances at the clock. Supper. If he's any longer, someone will come down looking for him, and he'd rather not have it be Merlin. Or God forbid, _Charlie_. "Maybe...later?"

In the flickering screen of the telly back home, this would be where the bloke would pull away, the moment would be ruined, and the two protagonists would spend the rest of the movie trying to get it back. 

But Eggsy's life has never been as easy as a two-hour film. He can't ever tell whether he's at the climax or near the ending—happy or not; he doesn't know fuck-all about that. But the moment he'd stopped at the bottom of the steps and turned to see Harry leaning against the concrete wall of the police station had seemed like  _something,_ like the scene should have been over-saturated or music should have started playing or time should have slowed down. 

Now, however, Harry smiles and squeezes his arm again, almost reassuringly. "Later, then. I'll leave you a hint where to find me when you get back from supper. All right?" 

Eggsy grins, heart skipping. "Okay." 

He feels like he's just getting started.

* * *

Eggsy nearly rushes through what has come to be one of his favorite times of day—mealtime—and nearly chokes on his steak-and-kidney pie twice before Roxy tells him that he wasn't going to do well at all tomorrow if he dies halfway through supper.

Charlie, of course, has to say something about that, and the ribbing and near-inelegant struggling over the bowl of peas and plate of potatoes make Merlin exasperatedly order them both back to their dormitories. Eggsy would normally fight this—Kingsman's desserts are  _aces—_ but his head is filled of theories of what Harry's hint will be. He knows Harry can very well just  _tell_ him the location, but Eggsy's learned Harry likes for Eggsy to keep surprising him. Solving a clue will be one of those chances. 

Charlie plops down with a huff on his bed and pulls out one of the booklets about parachuting Merlin handed out the other day, noisily flipping through the pages. Annoyed, Eggsy pats JB on the head after releasing him from his crate, and lets the pug hop on his bed, turning three times before settling down at his feet. He hears Charlie scoff, clearly watching him instead of studying, so Eggsy decides to play his game. Rifling through his locker in search of his own booklet, his fingers brush against something new—something with more pages, well-worn and smelling of old ink. He pulls it out—it's a paperback, with a purple cover of with pale yellow lettering and a picture of a falling star. 

"You read, Eggy?" 

"Don't be jealous because you can't read one without pictures," Eggsy retorts.  _  
_

He opens it to the inside cover—maybe Roxy put one of her things in his locker by mistake—but instead of a scribbled name, there's a piece of stationary that reads:

" _Between dark stems the forest glows, / I hear a noise of hymns: ..._ _Then move the trees, the copses nod, / Wings flutter, voices hover clear / 'O just and faithful knight of God! / Ride on! the prize is near.'_

_Kn_ _ock this time."_

* * *

It's a stupid hunch, but Kingsman _might_ have somewhere with hymns...a church? A chapel?....in the woods. 

Eggsy recalls something like that—behind the mansion, a little out of the way, during their sniper tests. He'd been paired with Charlie for that particular one, and no amount of bargaining and groveling could move Merlin into separating them. At least Roxy got partnered one of the less dickish ones—Hugo—but the exercise required shooting at his best mate and enduring hours of Charlie hissing insults in his ear.

But Eggsy did recall something that looked like a small, wooden house—more like a shack—before Charlie barked at him to climb a tree to get a better vantage point. With JB's tag and leash clinking in the mostly-silent night, Eggsy shines his torch—filched from one of the navigation exercises—into the trees. Flickering colors dance in the dim light, and Eggsy's about to wonder if he's hallucinating when he realizes it's a mosaic window. He goes up, fist banging on what he hopes is the door.

Eggsy then sees a shadow of a man's head, and is already coming up with apologies and excuses when a door near the window opens—and out steps Harry. 

"Ah, Eggsy," he greets. "I see you received my message." 

"Do I come in?" Eggsy points to JB, who's curiously sniffing at one of the wildflowers around the building. "Isn't it desecrating the site if animals go in?" 

Harry shrugs. "It's not encouraged, but I promise not to tell." He opens the door and beckons Eggsy in. "Come on, then."

Eggsy steps though, JB's claws clicking on the floor, and takes in the high ceilings, the rows of pews, and the lit red candles flickering below a window. "Kingsmen religious or something?" He's acutely aware of how his voice echoes in such an empty space, and how Harry stands, arms crossed behind his back, looking around as if it's his first time inside. 

"Some are, some aren't," Harry says simply. 

It might be rude to ask, but the want to know something more about Harry Hart besides that he can fight and be cheeky makes Eggsy blurt out: "Are you?" 

"The Church and I disagree on many points, but before that, I was baptized and finished my communion. Though, I have not been confirmed or officially left the church. So in a way, yes, and in a way, no."

Eggsy doesn't quite understand, but nods anyway. "So, that's a sorta-kinda answer?" 

"Circumstantial, more like." Harry shrugs, then laughs, almost as if he's making fun of himself. "If I were to pray to someone, it would be Merlin. That old bastard's saved my life more times than I can count. Why? Are you religious, by any chance?" 

"No," Eggsy says immediately. "I mean, I think Mum was, a little, but I've never been to church or nothing." He doesn't say that he hasn't believed in anything since Santa Claus, when he was about six.

As if he could sense the memories about to weigh down the air around them, Harry asks, with a hint of mischief in his voice, "So, this is your first time?" 

Eggsy grins. "Among other things." He looks around. "I didn't know Kingsman had a chapel."

"This used to be the residence for Galahad—if you recall, the knight with the purest heart." Harry snorts a little, as Eggsy stifles his own. "A little house behind here—it fell out of use as time went by; the knights' rooms are all contained the mansion." Harry walks towards the altar, then pushes open a door on the left side. Eggsy follows him through another that leads outside, into what looks like a little garden. Harry points into the darkness. "But here it still stands."

 _It_ looks decrepit. Almost lonely. Flowers and dark grass peek out halfheartedly from the ground, the plain glass windows look dark and dusty, and even the door handle looks rusty. 

"So why are we here, then?" Eggsy asks, wondering if this is one of Harry's  _how to be a gentleman_ sessions, but can't see how. Sometimes, Harry talks a little about history or old English poetry or the opera, but this doesn't seem like a lesson. It seems much more intimate than that. 

He's proven right when Harry steps towards the house and reaches for the door handle, turning back towards Eggsy with a secretive smile. "Because this is one of the only places on these grounds that Merlin's cameras don't have access to." 

The door opens to reveal a one-room cabin: a living space with a bookcase, fireplace, and an uneven kitchen table and chairs, with a tiny kitchen shoved in the back. Eggsy briefly wonders if there's a loo or electricity or even Internet, but his eyes are soon drawn to the bed pressed up against the window on the left side of the room, small with puffy red quilts and plump pillows. And on the nightstand to its right is a lamp and a white bottle. 

"I promised you a massage," Harry says.

Eggsy's heart is between beating so fast that he may collapse on the floor any minute now and beating so slowly that his eyes may simply slide shut. Not fight-or-flight, more like faint-or-relax. He looks at Harry, still standing a ways from the doorway—the  _open_ doorway, as if he's giving Eggsy a chance to back out.

But Eggsy doesn't want to; he sees encouragement—not to give in to his request, but to do what _Eggsy_  wants. He sees Harry's hands folded in front of him, in clear sight, waiting. He then imagines those hands reaching for him, touching him, sliding and squeezing bare flesh, and feels his breath hitch in his chest.

"Close the door," Eggsy says, a bit stroppily. "It's cold tonight." He then turns to JB, drops his leash, and points to the kitchen. JB trots into the room as Harry shuts the door, and Eggsy grabs one of the pillows from the bed and throws it onto the tiles for JB lie on and fills a low dish with tap water in case he gets thirsty. His pug huffs, beginning to lap at the water, before Eggsy steps into the room, unbuttoning his tartan suit with surprisingly steady fingers. Stupidly, the trouser legs tangle about his boots, and Eggsy bends down to unlace and pull them off.

As Eggsy stands, he then sees Harry watching, not with a wink or a lustful look, but with something _softer_.  

Harry's expression is gentle. "You don't have to undress all the way if you're not comfortable." 

Eggsy feels a bit vulnerable, with only his pants covering his bits, but stays where he is. "Where do you want me?" 

"On the bed," Harry says, with slightly-widened eyes, as if he's just realized what he's doing. Eggsy notices he's not wearing his glasses, and it's the second time he's seen Harry without them, but the first time he seems to notice. It makes Harry's face seem less...bold, less pronounced, less business-like. Like he's taken down some sort of shield. "On your stomach, if you will. Do you...do you want a towel?" 

Eggsy shakes his head. "No." He then walks over to spring onto the bed, knees bouncing up and down several times before he lays himself flat. This cabin is  _cold,_ and he can feel little goose pimples prick on his skin, before warm, large hands settle on his back. 

"Have you had a massage before, Eggsy?" 

He shakes his head. "No."  _  
_

"All right. Well, if you like, I can guide you through the process to get you familiar with the motions." 

Eggsy manages an awkward shrug. "If you like. Okay." 

"And if you don't want me to...continue, we can stop. Any time you wish." 

He feels almost embarrassed by Harry's caution. "I'll tell you. Don't worry." 

"All right." The hands draw back, no longer touching him, and Eggsy tries not to shiver. He catches a click of a cap opening and a squeak of plastic. "I'm just going to use some massage oil..." Eggsy at first hears  _shick shick shick,_ like Harry's rubbing sandpaper together instead of his two palms, then a  _slick slick slick._ Oil. On Harry's hands, Harry's fingers, gleaming on his skin, like—

"I'm first going to touch your spine, lower back, neck, shoulders, arms, fingers." Harry pauses between each word, slowly, and Eggsy absorbs each one like a touch. "In that order. Is that okay?" 

"Yes," Eggsy breathes, turning his head so it isn't muffled by the pillow. 

"I'm also going to straddle your legs and your back at some points." 

"That's fine." 

"I—"

"Harry, come on. Just do it. I'm tensing over here." 

He swears he can  _feel_ Harry roll his eyes. "Very well." And his hands—slick with oil—touch him again. "Tell me if you begin to feel any discomfort." 

Eggsy tenses when Harry's fingers begin to slide down each side of his spine, pressing down ever so often, gently. When the touch brushes just against his waistband, Eggsy's spine stiffens, heart pounding through his chest and into the mattress, but Harry immediately slides upward. He feels as if the massage should have continued, but Harry gives no indication of this, instead moving upwards to his neck.

The last time hands were at his neck, Eggsy was being near-strangled by his stepfather, but this is the opposite: careful and cautious and considerate, moving slowly to his shoulders, as if bracing him, then smoothing down his arms like they're twin pieces of delicate fabric. And his fingers—Harry's own close around his, not pulling back or crushing his bones, but treat them like they're limbs of their own, with equal attention. 

It's awkward, hearing both his and Harry's heavy breathing, and Eggsy desperately wants to say something, but can't think of a single topic to start. He can only sink into the touch and try not to moan when his ache is found, pinpointed, and coaxed into gentle submission. Harry's touch becomes deft and firm, pulling from his lower body  _up,_ and the pressure is  _fucking amazing,_ nothing like Eggsy's ever felt. It's like being pressed down under a streamroller, like his tension is being slowly pressed out of him, like holding onto the world while floating away. 

"So tense," Harry finally murmurs. "You've never relaxed in your life, I warrant." 

"When would I have the time?" Eggsy retorts, voice becoming out in a breathy sigh. 

"Shame, that." His hands are kneading Eggsy like a particularly tall spread of dough. "I have a lovely bath at home. Deep. Plenty of room to spread out. And Jacuzzi jets. Perfect for after missions." 

Eggsy can imagine it, sinking deep into delicious warmth, nose buried in rippling water, skin being softly pounded by the jets. But he can't imagine them comparing to Harry's hands, large and attentive. "Sounds aces." 

"If you become Lancelot, you are welcome to it. Or, if you wish to indulge yourself in one of Kingsman's physical therapists..."

So much depends on _if_.  _If_ he passes his test, _if_ he becomes a full-fledged agent, _if_ he and Harry can even—does Kingsman have anti-fraternization laws? 

He's about to open his mouth to ask Harry this, but instead, a shameless moan escapes when Harry moves to his legs, sliding and kneading at his sore muscles. Previously, they've felt like they've been running for days without stopping, and now, when the oil slides around his foot and thumbs press into his soles, Eggsy feels like he can never, ever get up and walk after this.

"Good?" Harry asks, with a teasing lilt to his voice. 

Eggsy sighs again, and not just because of the massaging. "Good. You should have become a proper masseuse, Harry." 

"Then Kingsman would have lost a very fine agent," Harry says dryly, and Eggsy laughs, the sound breathless and loud in such a small space. "Two, as a matter of fact."

Eggsy's glad his part of his face is mashed against the pillow. "Don't start that. I could be Kingsman's shittiest agent and be booted out a month after my recruitment." 

"Nonsense." Instead of going along with the joke, Harry continues in the serious vein, "You're an excellent candidate. You never would have made it this far if you weren't exceptional." 

"Charlie made it." 

"He's an excellent candidate, too, but he's far from exceptional." Harry's fingers are paying extra attention to his sore calves now. _Heavenly._ "I knew him as a lad. Spoiled then, spoiled now." 

"Did you?" Eggsy tries to imagine a tiny Charlie, a younger Harry, and can't quite put it all together. He  _can_ imagine a red-faced, simpering little boy with floppy hair, but can't with Harry. Had his hair always been this shade of brown, combed painstakingly into a perfect part? Had he always been tall and long-limbed and muscled? Had his demeanor always been calm and collected, but with a spark of ruthlessness and quick temper? He remembers very little about Harry's visit to his house when he was seven, but Eggsy's memory supplies him with a very similar-looking Harry. Less gray, perhaps...

"I did. I don't think that boy's ever been told  _no_ in his life." 

 _Boy._ He and Charlie are around the same age. Does Harry look at him and think  _boy_ , too?

He's been called that by teachers and officers and Dean, even well into his twenties. He doesn't like the idea of Harry thinking of him like...like...some little kid.

_But he winked at me. Invited me here._

 Harry could be playing him, for all Eggsy knows. But he doesn't  _get_ that feeling. Harry's a gentleman, Harry's kind, and Harry's not some tosser who pretends to like someone if he doesn't. 

 _You don't know him, though,_ the same voice in his head tells him.  _You've known him for a few weeks, and that doesn't count the time he was in a coma. He can be a completely different person than you think he is._

Suddenly, fingers are twisting his big toe, and Eggsy yelps and yanks it back, curling inward. "You're going to yank it off!"

"I would never," Harry replies, but stops. "You need them, and besides, they're lovely toes."

Eggsy knows they're  _not._ They're cracked and dry and might even have foot fungus because no one wears flip-flops in the communal showers. 

But for some reason, Harry's possible lie makes Eggsy smile.

"Fine, continue." he says, roughly. "But if you pull it off, you're going to hound Merlin until he gets me a prosthetic toe. Something that shoots lasers or something."

Harry sighs, heavily. "Yes, Eggsy," he concedes, and Eggsy relaxes when a finger slides between his first two toes and curls. 

He's going to have to return soon, make his excuses, and go to bed to another tiring day tomorrow. But for now, he just wants to lie here and be with Harry. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THe poem from Harry's note is from [ this.](http://www.bartleby.com/42/641.html)


	3. Chapter 3

“Am I to understand that the reason why my cameras caught Eggsy sneaking into the dormitory at one in the morning was because you decided to give him a  _massage_ in the chapel?”

Harry freezes, one foot over the threshold of Merlin’s office. “It wasn't in the chapel; it—”

“Save it, _Galahad_ ,” Merlin interrupts, turning away from his monitor and folding his arms across his chest. “You're lucky your candidate wasn't caught on his way back to the mansion. You're  _especially_ lucky that I won't report this little incident to Arthur.”

Harry recalls Arthur's sneering: _"Felt sorry for the boy? He will find this humiliating,”_ and thanks his friend gratefully.

Merlin sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Are you out of your right mind, Harry? You know what the rules are—”

“Sponsors are allowed to interact with candidates, but not accept gifts or other such bribes for favors in return,” Harry recites, then adds, “and you know as well as I that a few of the other agents can take a candidate out during a rare free day and work on a skill that they need to master—”

“Exactly, like languages or etiquette or martial arts,” Merlin stresses, “not _massaging.”_

“I haven’t been doing anything inappropriate.”

“Which is why you took the lad to a place with no cameras. Because you were, what? Teaching him chess?” Merlin leans forward, hands now curling around the arms of the chair. “This could compromise his nomination, his training, his _chance._ You know Arthur, and you know that if he got a whiff of anything less than distant, _platonic_ interactions between the two of you, he could get together a tribunal to have Eggsy removed. Your boy’s already raised his suspicions with his battlefield wife routine when you were in that coma.”

Harry tries not to feel too pleased, remembering Eggsy’s hushed voice during those frustrating months when he couldn’t move a single muscle: slowly murmuring paragraphs from textbooks, frantically muttering bullet points from notes, softly laughing over amusing anecdotes from training, and occasionally whispering _you’ll be all rights_. Sometimes, he could feel a phantom touch on his hand, just his hand, as if Eggsy was afraid of disturbing one of the many wires that kept him hooked to the constantly-humming machines.

“Don’t look so smug,” Merlin says, with a pointed look his way. “But to his credit, he didn’t let it interfere with his training at all. Pushed himself so hard that I was sorely tempted to knock him out a few times.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Harry replies confidently, though he’s inwardly cataloging Eggsy’s dark circles underneath his eyes, constant glances at him, and tense muscles that Harry had spent nearly over an hour taking care of.

It had been an impulsive notion of his, but once Harry had the bit, he ran with it and was pleasantly surprised when Eggsy did, too. The coy glances and teasing that afternoon were, at the time, harmless flirtations. He knew Eggsy—not to sound conceited—found him attractive, and the feeling was rather mutual. Hidden by the street clothes and the loose-fitting boiler suit were broad shoulders and strong thighs and tempting areas that Harry made himself either touch with the strictest degree of professionalism or avoid at all costs. Not to mention the memory of Eggsy in the sleeping quarters, water streaming down his exposed skin, fingers wrapped around an eager cock—

“Well, I’m glad you’re all right.” Merlin’s voice startles him out of his thoughts, and Harry forces his mind to move from developing fantasies. “Eggsy’s wounded puppy dog eyes were all I could take.”

Once again, Harry tries not to feel a small, guilty measure of gratification for his protégé’s concern. “Surely he wasn’t that upset?”

“The lad nearly cried over you when he saw the state you were in. The only way I could reassure him that everything was going to be all right was when I told him to make it through the tests and make _you_ proud.” Merlin’s observing him now, like a light being trained directly on his eyes. “Are you sure the second time you met him was at the police station?”

“Yes,” Harry answers, a little surprised himself. Eggsy had been wide-eyed and confused, squinting in the bright sunlight, with an abrupt _who the fuck are you?_ when he saw Harry waiting for him on the steps. How different he’d been, how lovely he looked later in the dimmed lighting of the shop, pushing his way past the heavy glass door, with a sly _I’ve never met a tailor before, but I know you ain’t one._

Merlin then swivels in his chair, turning towards his monitors. “I expect you to be a paragon of virtue from now on. No gifts. No flirtations. And certainly no _massaging_.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry replies, saluting him as he exits, pretending not to notice the silent glare directed at the back of his head.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sort of a brief interlude, but don't worry, we're going to get more action in the next chapter! I know I haven't updated this in a while, so I'm happy to be writing this in between my other WIPs.


	4. Chapter 4

“What _were_ you two doing?” Roxy whispers the next afternoon, lips barely moving.

“Nothing,” Eggsy hisses through his teeth. “Swear down, Rox, nothing that you think.”

Roxy’s not only top of the class, but top of _looking_ like she’s paying attention in class. Her eyes are trained forward to a lecturing Merlin, and her right hand is rapidly scribbling what look like notes, but if Eggsy cranes his neck to the side ever so slightly, they say: _“Nothing that’s against the rules? Section Six, Subsection Two: intimate contact with sponsors is strictly prohibited—”_

Eggsy honestly shouldn’t be surprised at this point _. “You actually memorized the handbook?”_ he writes back.

Roxy sighs. To the others around them, it may come off as an ordinary sound of boredom, but Eggsy knows that sigh is especially for him. In less than thirty seconds, the next set of “notes” demand: _“What am I supposed to think when you come back in the early morning hours, smelling of something like lotion or oil?”_

Feeling his ears grow warmer at the last word, Eggsy replies, “ _It’s nothing like that! I keep telling you—”_

“Eggsy, Roxy,” Merlin suddenly says, and both of them nearly jump in their seats. “I’m sure that this lesson would prove more interesting if you both paid attention.”  

Roxy flushes the slightest pink, and Eggsy raises his chin proudly when Charlie’s mates snicker, but they both deferentially mutter apologies to Merlin, who stares long and hard at them before continuing his lecture. When Eggsy starts actually listening, he’s realizing that Merlin’s talking about different types of tie knots and which patterns to pair with which colors, and while he understands that this may be sort of important to maintaining one’s cover as a tailor, it’s also as boring as waiting for water to boil. He doesn’t even have JB with him to distract him, since all the dogs are currently being groomed.

Not to mention, the room is like taking the bus in the middle of the way, squashed in the middle of grumbling, impatient people. Either Merlin doesn’t feel the heat or simply doesn’t care.

Beside him, Roxy obediently jots notes, but it’s clear by the somewhat vacant gaze at her paper that she’s finding this as fascinating as Eggsy does. When Eggsy takes a quick glance around the room, pretending to look out the window, he can see Hugo with his cheek resting on his palm, Rufus staring at the clock above Merlin’s head, Digby visibly yawning, and Charlie doodling something in the margins of his notebook paper. Merlin, again not noticing or caring, drones on, talking around herringbone patterns and their _ratios,_ of all things, and pointing out examples on his slides.

It goes on and on and on, and Eggsy’s considering asking Merlin if he could go use the loo as an excuse to just get out of the stifling classroom when a fat _plop_ catches his attention. Then another. Then another.

And suddenly, it’s _raining_.

Everyone abandons pretense of interest in favor of watching the droplets plummet fast and frantic against the window, pattering loudly like shaking rocks in a can, drowning out Merlin’s voice.

Until, of course, he raises it: “Since all of you are so… _listless_ today, perhaps you can all get up and take a run around the track until you’re all energized.”

Some, like Hugo and Roxy, look a bit guilty and have the sense to stay quiet, but _Digby_ has the nerve—stupidity, really—to point out, “But it’s _raining_ , sir.”

Merlin only raises an eyebrow. “So?”

To his credit, Merlin isn’t cruel—he does give them thin rain cloaks to put over their horrible boiler suits—but they don’t do much good in the long run. Even with the hoods up, water still slips down their faces and down their neck and into their clothes, while the muddy puddles on the track splash and soak into their boots and socks. Eggsy’s gone out jogging in the rain, but not with wind blowing his hood and cloak back or mud splattering up his trousers. He tries to remember exercises like this in the Marines, but somehow, this run seems especially punishing after the massage last night that made his limbs turn to jelly and made him not want to get up for a week.

Standing underneath the roof on the patio in a nice, warm greatcoat, Merlin monitors their progress with occasional shouts of “once more around the track, everyone!” and “don’t forget you’ll be running with supplies during an actual mission!”

As Roxy passes him, Eggsy hears her mutter a curse underneath her breath, but push on, all while everyone else tries to keep their pace.

When Eggsy sees Charlie slowly gaining on him, he looks ahead and increases his speed. No way is this prick getting ahead of him. 

* * *

 

Dinner that evening is especially warm and plentiful, and Eggsy’s sighing happily over the sensation of a full stomach, something he’s getting used to, and the heating system in the mansion. While tucking into the fourth helping of an egg custard tart—flaky, savory, and sweet enough to almost bring a tear to his eye—Eggsy glances around the room. Charlie’s laughing at something Digby has said, while Hugo and Rufus are recalling some rowing competition at Oxford—fucking _Oxford_ —and Roxy’s watching Merlin, who’s seated at the end of the table.

“What are you staring at him for?” Eggsy asks. “Got a crush?”

Roxy gives him a withering look of scorn. “ _No._ I’m just wondering why he’s looking at _you_.”

“Me?” Eggsy casually looks in the quartermaster’s direction, but Merlin’s attention is firmly fixed on his steak-and-kidney pie. “What are you talking about?”

“You got in far past lights out. You don’t think he’s noticed? Why hasn’t he come down on you?” Roxy muses. “Remember when Galahad was in that coma?”

Eggsy wordlessly nods, recalling taking a wrong turn and wandering past two suited men whispering very solemnly about _Galahad and the explosion._ Without thinking, his feet took him through winding corridors, keeping an ear out for anyone wandering by, and finally arriving at the room with Harry laying in a hospital bed, helpless and more disheveled than Eggsy had ever seen.

Merlin had told Eggsy Harry would be all right, but he didn’t specify whether he’d be allowed to visit Harry, and Eggsy honestly didn’t ask. He’d steal away—sometimes even bringing JB to keep a look out—during hours where recruits were supposed to be engaged in private study or extremely close to lights out and sit next to Harry. Roxy told him that coma patients sometimes heard what was being said to them even while unconscious, and Eggsy had tried to give something for Harry to latch onto, hoping, with each sentence, that this would be the moment where Harry would wake up.

He hadn’t questioned the leather chair that appeared by Harry’s bedside a few weeks into Harry’s coma, assuming it was for a night nurse or the like, but found it more comfortable than the floor, or if he dared, on the very edge of Harry’s bed.

The only time when Merlin acknowledged that Eggsy might have wanted to see Harry was alerting him of Harry waking up. It had been a too-short visit, but it was enough for Eggsy to walk in and see Harry sitting up in his bed, still looking scraggly and tired but very much alive.

“How did Merlin not catch you?” Roxy now continues. “I know you’re good at sneaking around, but there’s no way Merlin didn’t suspect a thing.”

“Maybe I _am_ that good.”

Roxy looked as if she wanted to upend the bowl of bread pudding over his head, but instead gets up and pushes in her chair. “You’re insufferable.”

“Maybe Merlin just likes me,” Eggsy suggests, following her out into the hallway, back towards their dormitory. 

She only rolls her eyes in response. “He might, but he's certainly not going to give you a massage." 

"Don't give me nightmares, Rox," Eggsy replies, and tries his best not to think about the small voice hovering in the recesses of his mind that says,  _I'd rather have Harry._

 


	5. Chapter 5

Eggsy wakes up and knows it is not going to be a good day.

For one, he has a sore throat and already feels as tired as he would be at the end of training. His forehead, when he quickly presses against it with a tentative palm, feels warm, and while changing into his tartan uniform, his temperature goes up to boiling. He knows from Jamal, who liked to watch cheesy medical dramas, that no one really gets a cold from just being out in the rain; it's caused by viruses or some shit involving the weather making the immune system go wonky. Thinking back, Eggsy can't really say who he got whatever he has from; his fellow recruits seem perfectly healthy, Merlin may be immortal and invulnerable, and Harry, although previously in a coma, appears otherwise fine. 

Roxy frowns when he tries to stifle his coughing during breakfast. “Did you have your flu shot?”

“I’ve been getting it ever since Dais was born. Didn’t want her catching anything.” Not that, Eggsy thought, that her own father bothered to make sure his daughter wouldn’t get sick. His only goal for Daisy was for her to be quiet, and most of that duty fell to Eggsy. "Besides, I'll be fine." 

Today's exercise is a scavenger hunt, and luckily, he's paired with Hugo, who's more on a high pony than a horse, and thus is less of an arsehole than Charlie and his lot. He spares a few moments of pity for Roxy when he hears her gritting through her teeth,  _No, Rufus, north is this way_ or  _Listen to me, it's over there!_ Hugo, besides shooting him brief looks of annoyance when he coughs loudly enough to draw attention or is a bit too slow in replying to a suggestion, doesn't give him a hard time, and they end up being the first team to bring all the items to Merlin, who rewards them with cups of blessedly hot tea and a blessing to go to lunch. 

The bread, with its golden-brown crust, scrapes uncomfortably along his throat, but the tea and hot stew with plenty of soft potatoes and peas feel like heaven. Sitting down is a reprieve, even when the other candidates begin to arrive, chatting loudly and obnoxiously about this and that. Roxy wordlessly pats him on the back when he starts coughing again, swallowing the thick goo when it comes up on his tongue. 

But too soon, they finish, and Merlin sets them to another task of creating a trap using the things they found. Eggsy gives directions to himself in his head to keep himself focused-- _pass Hugo the rope, screw that in, hold it steady--_ and if his hands are a touch slower than usual, Hugo doesn't comment on it. Luckily, Eggsy's used to working through spots of sickness like this; it will pass, and he'll make up for this by speeding through the tasks when he feels better. 

Finally, after Merlin gives their trap an approving nod, they get time for private study. Normally, Eggsy would go to the gym or study with Roxy in the Kingsman library, a place large enough to make anyone's mouth fall open, but this time, he, along with a grunting JB, heads back to the dormitories to lie down on his bed and hopefully get through another chapter detailing fifty different ways to kill someone with things you'd find at an average formal dinner party. Ever since Harry woke up, Eggsy's fantasies of spending more time alone with his mentor, as the other candidates have done, had increased, but Harry didn't deserve to be woken up from a coma, then be smacked with whatever Eggsy had. 

His resolve to cram in some studying dissolves as soon as his head hits the pillow. 

He only wakes up when the call for dinner blares through the loudspeakers. JB snorts impatiently by his feet, burying his face into Eggsy's blankets, while Eggsy blearily swipes at his eyes and forces himself out of bed to quickly tidy up and head to the dining hall. His legs and chest ache, and all he wants to do is lay back down, but is tempted by another steaming cup of tea waiting for him. _Honey and lemon,_ he thinks _,_ concentrating on the fantasy of relief from his scratchy, dry throat. The thought of solid food makes him want to already shove the heavily-laden plates away.  

When he opens his locker to stuff his book back in, a bottle of ibuprofen, along with a note _,_ is sitting neatly on the middle shelf.

 _This will help with the pain,_  it reads.  _Keep it up. Drink plenty of water._

* * *

Several days later, Eggsy's nearly dead on his feet, bright spots playing across his vision as they run another lap around the grounds. He's shucked off the top part of his suit so the white shirt is exposed, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Sweat pours down his spine, faster and faster, as his feet continue to move, shoes slapping against the track. The sun is shining high above them, so much so that Eggsy has to squint at times as it periodically ducks in and out of the clouds. It's so hot that Roxy thinks it might rain soon, and Eggsy hopes for that, another downpour to run over his heated body, and imagines droplets sizzling when they meet his bare flesh. 

"One more lap!" Merlin shouts. 

Roxy passes him, then Digby, then Hugo. Panting, Eggsy continues, feeling every increasingly-slow step, every bit of dust that gets into his socks, every trickle of sweat.

The sun winks. 

It's almost as if there's a pause in the world, as the colors begin to blur and his head swims, before his legs give out from under him.   
  
He hears Charlie laughing, as Roxy rushes to his side to help him up. "He's _sick_ ," she scolds, checking his forehead. "Eggsy, you have to lie down."  
  
"No," Eggsy protests, trying to stand, even if his legs are weaker than a newborn kitten’s. He notices everyone gathering around to have a look, feeling shame squirm in his stomach. "I can make it; come on, Merlin, let me run it again."  
  
"When you're recovered," Merlin says crisply. "But to be fair, you did get much further than I thought." He then jerks his head towards the manor with a stern look. "I'm going to personally escort you down to Medical. Everyone else, head onto the training facility and wait at the obstacle course."

Roxy nods, shooting Eggsy a worried glance before following the rest, and Merlin, much to Eggsy's dismay, has to half-carry him into Medical. One of the doctors clucks her tongue when she sees him, forcing him to lie down on one of the cots after his examination to talk to Merlin in the hallway. In his mind, Eggsy plays out different scenarios about creeping to the door for eavesdropping, but the more he considers moving, the more he wants to stay in bed. Someone had draped a thin blanket over him, and Eggsy simultaneously wants to kick it off and pull it over his head. 

“You have pneumonia," the quartermaster announces, as soon as he walks through the door. 

“No,” Eggsy says, horrified.

“Yes,” Merlin replies without a blink. “Chest pain, chills, nausea, shortness of breath, coughing up mucus, soreness, and fatigue. Not to mention your high fever. Classic textbook symptoms, and you’ve worsened them by exerting yourself.” He shakes his head. “Honestly, you’re almost as bad as Galahad.” 

Eggsy smiles briefly at the mention of Harry, obstinate and proud. 

“Kingsman has some of the best medical technology in the world," Merlin continues, brisk and matter-of-fact. "The doctor is going to prescribe you antibiotics and bed rest, and we’ll see where that takes you.”

“But I can’t—I have to keep—"

"You are not getting kicked out for a bout of pneumonia, lad," Merlin reassures, eyes softening. "And you  _will_ follow doctor's orders. If you like, your pug can be escorted here, and perhaps some reading material if you feel up to it. But  _no_ physical exertion until the doctor confirms that you're one hundred percent better. Understand?"

Looking around the room, with nothing but a television hanging over his bed for company and his own exhausted body, Eggsy sighs.

"Yes, Merlin," he says obediently. 

* * *

Having pneumonia is  _boring._ Since it's contagious, Roxy or Merlin only visit for a few minutes to either drop some stuff off or chat, and Eggsy's not allowed to leave the room. He used to think laying in bed all day with someone waiting on him hand and foot would be welcoming after months of training, but right now, all he feels is stifled, trapped in with the same white walls and bed with hospital corners. He can't do anything beyond reading his assignments, watching simulations of physical training on a tablet, eating and drinking plenty of warm and nutritious food, and sleeping. A  _lot_ of sleeping. 

He finishes the book that Harry had slipped into his locker, the one with the note that led him to the chapel in the woods. Although Eggsy enjoys it, enough to go back and read it again, then his favorite parts, he can't get the image of poor Yvaine climbing up the palace, alone and sad, staring up at the sky. He's sure she doesn't shine very much, or at all, and when he remembers of himself gazing uselessly at Harry, eyes closed in the hospital bed, he thinks,  _Stupid._

The more he stays in here, the more he knows he's missing. Roxy tells him about another survival exercise--not as extensive as the one where they'd been dropped in various parts of wilderness outside of Britain and had to find their way back home--involving poisonous plants, hiding in the mud, and making stringy squirrel roast; a few bomb disarming and hacking classes; and even more physical training. "And Merlin says we're going to begin extraction methods," she says, shuddering when she hands him a packet detailing parachuting. He's feeling better now, but Merlin still won't let him out, much to his annoyance. 

Eggsy takes notes and tries to memorize the diagrams, most of them with a bloke getting ready to jump out of a plane with a very bored expression, but his mind keeps wandering. He's ready to start getting up and banging on the hospital door, screaming to be let out.  

Just as he swings his legs over the bed to attempt a little escape, there's a knock on the door.

"Uh, come in?"

"Eggsy," Harry greets, pushing a silver cart and looking very sharp in a tuxedo. "How are you?" 

"Bored out of my fucking mind." Eggsy takes the opportunity to eye Harry up and down. "What's with the penguin suit?"

"Reconnaissance," Harry replies. "I was supposed to show up for physical therapy, but I thought you would appreciate the company."   
  
"They let you off?"  
  
Harry winks at him. "In a matter of speaking." Eggsy then notices the cart's contents: a ceramic teapot and silver tureens, along with cups with tiny flowers, covered plates, shining silverware, and two napkins folded in the shapes of swans. "I come bearing gifts. And I assume you want to stretch your legs?"

"Yes, Harry," Eggsy breathes. He's in the gray pajama bottoms and white t-shirt that had been handed out the first night, so he quickly slips on some shoes to follow Harry out the door. He's not sure if Harry's obtained special permission to let him out or not, but Harry walks down the hall with bold confidence, as if no one in the world could stop him. Doing his best to imitate Harry's high chin and unhurried strides, Eggsy follows him to the end of the corridor, where Harry slips off his jacket and places it over his shoulders. 

"Are we..." Eggsy begin to ask, and when Harry pushes open the door, revealing the grounds of high hedges and neatly mowed grass. Outside, it's already getting dark, and the lights around what looks like a fucking _gazebo_ are on. He slips into Harry's jacket, trying to inconspicuously identify the exact scent of the cologne lingering in the folds, and watches Harry push the cart up a paved path and step into the gazebo to unload the contents on a wooden, round table with legs that tangle like limbs in bed.

Harry gestures to a chair, already pulled out for him. "Have a seat."

Eggsy sits, as Harry begins uncovering the dishes. There's a feast of varieties of flaky pasties, lamb curry with white rice and lime wedges, colorful purple and red berries, fish fillets with chips and mushy peas, thick pad thai noodles, golden and cream-filled pastries, shiny potstickers and dumplings, dark orange chicken tikka masala, and creme brulees in small, white bowls. 

"I wasn't entirely sure what you like," Harry admits, "but there's a variety from takeaways and the pastry shop near my house and--"

"Harry," Eggsy interrupts, "this is _perfect_."

He can't say how long they stay out there, only that the food is the best he's tasted in a long time and that Harry makes him laugh, often when he's about to put something in his mouth. The tea is nothing like the bitter, herbal drinks that the doctors have forced him to consume; instead, it's almost sweet enough to not put sugar in, which Harry does. Eggsy makes Harry stare curiously when he swivels a cream puff into his tikka masala, and Harry sighs in disgruntlement when he bites into a soup dumpling, bits of pork and broth sliding down his chin. They talk about training and books and other small things, Harry refusing to talk about his current mission other than the odd hint that he ate McDonalds. 

"Thank you for this," Eggsy says, when most of the food is gone, almost shyly. "You didn't have to. Really." 

Harry's spoon cracks through the caramelized sugar with a satisfying snap. "I know I didn't." He smiles at Eggsy, then, soft and warm underneath the lanterns that are strewn around the gazebo's railing and roof. "But I wanted to." Underneath the table, his knee bumps his. 

"Well, thanks again." Eggsy looks down at his own dessert, wanting to take a bite, but not willing to make a move that would end their evening together. "It's...nice."

"I have a feeling we shall be seeing each other soon," Harry says, then slides a small packet towards him. "It will smell cloying and unpleasant, but eucalyptus will clear your lungs. You can also take hot showers; the steam should help." He takes another bite of his dessert before saying, "And I shall hope to see you for a certain class soon."

"What class?" Eggsy asks. "You're going to be teaching us? What, like weapons or something?"

Harry only smiles mysteriously. 


	6. Chapter 6

When Eggsy, cheeks flushed from an obstacle course of what Merlin called _get out before you die_ , walks into the classroom, he nearly stops right in the doorway.

“Hello, class,” Harry says, standing in the middle of what looks like a ballroom. “Welcome to NLP training, part one.”

Roxy nudges him, then outright shoves when he won’t move. Eggsy catches himself before he trips over the threshold, shoots Roxy a disgruntled gaze, and begins walking over towards one of the small, round tables pushed around the edges of the room. They have white tablecloths, candles in the center, and a full set of utensils Eggsy doesn’t know how to use. A small twist of anxiety reminds him that if he's going to mess up, he's going to mess up in front of _Harry_. 

“Just stand here,” Harry says, gesturing in front of him. “I just have a short lecture, and we’ll commence with our exercise.”

Eggsy and Roxy obediently shuffle to where Harry’s jutting his chin towards, as the rest of the recruits form a straight line, hands behind their backs and eyes fastened towards the new instructor.

“Contrary to popular belief, spies are not assigned honeypots very often,” Harry begins. “So you can forget about thinking that you can merely seduce someone for information. Intelligent villains will not fall for batting eyelashes and coy smiles. Let this be a little wake-up call to those who thought you’ll be jetting around the world to sleep with pretty young heiresses or princesses: it’s going to be work. You’ve spent many months here, yes?”

Everyone nods, wondering where this is going.

“When’s the last time you visited your family, called your friends, or…” Harry slowly smiles. “Engaged in any sexual activity?”

The whole room is quiet and evaluating. Charlie’s looking at one of the cameras in the ceiling with a disgruntled expression; Roxy appears almost blasé with a tinge of annoyance; Digby heaves an audible sigh; Hugo stares hard at the floor; Rufus has an _oh shit, how many months have I gone on?_ look;and Eggsy tilts his head and finds himself catching Harry’s eye. 

Harry doesn’t even blink, but something about his expression makes Eggsy flush just a bit. It's so serious, so innocent, and Eggsy, with a squeezing sense of something like a thrill in his chest, knows that the only other person who knows what Eggsy's thinking and what he's been up to is standing right in front of him. And  _he's_ definitely the only one to have seen Harry's naked body underneath the shower and to have felt his long, capable fingers against his own bare skin, along with private smiles and secret gifts.

“Exactly,” Harry continues, without so much as a glance in Eggsy’s direction. “But don’t fret—one thing villains have is no shortage of pride. They love their egos. Even the most subdued will perk up if someone praises him. So that’s why,” he turns around, spreading his arm the length of the room, “we’re going to go back the basics. Step one: manners matter.”

Digby quietly groans.

“This leads up to something; don’t you worry,” Harry says. “Now, then, the art of conversation—”

As Harry begins to lecture, Eggsy wonders how opening and closing your mouth to let sound through could be so complex. Harry talks about the four pillars of NLP, latching onto someone whose skills you’re interested in, focusing solely on the person you’re talking to, finding common ground, and basically arse-kissing until you can manage to slip away. Some parts seem interesting, like how to get someone to do a favor for you, but most of it seems like common sense.

The next part seems like fun: pretending that they're at some fancy gala. Harry seats them at the tables, then walks them through small talk and how to properly greet someone and a bunch of other things that have the others nodding in boredom, but Eggsy soaks it all up, trying to remember differences among dukes and viscounts and earls. The dinner etiquette alone has him despairing, especially when Harry blathers on and on about seating arrangements: the most important male guest to the hostess's right, the next important to her left, men and women in alternate seats, couples separated...it's enough to make Eggsy feel a bit stupid, especially when Charlie flawlessly spouts off a quote from some posh handbook he apparently read as a kid, and Hugo's able to point to all the forks and tell Harry which is which. 

Harry seems to sense attention is meandering, so he directs them into pairs to practice the finer points of NLP. Eggsy’s dismayed when Harry partners him up with Charlie for practice, then pleased when Harry assigns Charlie with the lesser rank.

“Frankly, I think you need more practice than me,” Charlie says, with a sneer, as they turn towards each other.

“If you’re asking to switch roles, no way,” Eggsy retorts. “Might learn something to not be on top of a fucking ivory tower for once.”

“You sound bitter.” Charlie crosses his arms and smirks. “Well, tell you what, _Lord Unwin,_ you can take my ivory tower and shove it straight up your ar—“

“Now, Charlie, is that any way to treat your better?” Roxy calls from across the room, and Eggsy smirks when Charlie flushes a slight red. She shoots him a sympathetic glance, ignoring her partner's annoyed huff, and looks towards Charlie, rolling her eyes. 

“I liked Lord Unwin,” Eggsy says. “Keep going.”

Charlie grimaces. “All right, _Lord Unwin,_ how was your day today?”

“Very good so far,” Eggsy says, imitating Harry’s accent, and he sees Roxy clearly trying to hide a smile at his attempt. 

“I’m happy to hear that.” Charlie frowns. “Lord Unwin, do you have some sort of nasal infection? Your voice seems to be off today.”

"Thank you for your concern, but I'm in good health." Eggsy smiles. "You, however, look unwell. Did the oysters disagree with you, or was that just your dance partner?"

"God, you're such a fucking chav," Charlie mutters, and Eggsy's really, really fights the urge to punch him. 

They eventually move onto trading partners and role-playing, some with coordinates or information on a certain imaginary target and the others trying to get that intel out of that person. Digby's making it extra difficult for Eggsy, who just wants to know the location of Lord-What's-His-Name, when Harry interrupts for a brief lecture. 

“Many may tell you that you must always treat the people you meet as your lesser,” Harry says, “but I, for one, think it should be the opposite.” Turning his head, he looks every one of them in the eye. “Pride can be harmful not only in a mission, but also in relationships with others. Don’t think you can sneer at anyone on the street and get the respect you think you deserve. You never know what that person is going through, who they really are.” He then claps his hands together once. "Now, the fun part of a gala is dancing. Would anyone care to volunteer how to ask a partner?" Harry then gestures to himself. 

Eggsy ventures a guess: "Wanna dance?" he asks simply, as if Harry's another bird at a club. 

"Not bad," Harry says. "Though I would recommend standing a bit closer, a little more eye contact. You don't want that person to think you're asking out of obligation. Dancers look for another dancers on the floor, but that's something for another day." He then inclines his head. "Care to try again, Eggsy?" 

Eggsy takes a deep breath, then locks eyes with Harry, chin raised. "Would you care to dance?" 

"Yes, I would, thank you." Harry then says, "Now, Eggsy would offer me his hand and escort me to the floor, but first, let's see what Merlin set up for us." He then pulls out a small remote control from his trouser pocket and aims at a corner of the room. 

Soft music emits from hidden speakers, and Harry smiles, clearly amused.

"Ah, tango," Harry murmurs, almost to himself. "Cheeky bastard." Then, "Well, Eggsy, shall we?" 

Eggsy mutely remains where he is. He doesn't want to refuse, but Harry has to know he can't dance—well, he _can_ , just not with all those fancy steps. 

Harry crosses the floor, then gently pulls him towards the center. Leaning forward, he whispers, "Right hand in mine, raised, left on my waist." Eggsy obeys, aware of the music and eyes watching. "Now, just follow my lead." 

They simply rock back and forth, Eggsy's heart in his throat. Their foreheads are almost touching, and every sense is hyper-alert, ready for more instructions. The music seems longing and sweet, far from what the passionate sweeps Eggsy imagined when he heard the word _tango_. 

But it slowly, slowly builds, as Harry guides him silently, feet expertly criss-crossing over each other, lightly gliding across the floor. All Eggsy could do is follow, looking down and trying not to step on Harry, not daring to do any twirls or dips or whatever it is they do in tango. He's never done anything like this and hopes he doesn't look the clumsy foo next to Harry's effortless grace.

But to his surprise, it's not so bad, and Harry, towards the end, spins him effortlessly in and out of his arms with a bit of a flourish before coming to a stop. His hand is splayed across Eggsy's back, the other still holding Eggsy's hand. Eggsy can feel the warmth, the confident grip, the brief tightening of his fingers, and thinks that if they weren't in front of everyone, he'd kiss Harry, right then and there. 

Harry then glances at the clock, gently letting go and nodding for Eggsy to return to his place. "So now, for your homework, I’ve taken the liberty of writing down a few names for you. Your mission is to find who that person is and persuade them to do a certain task, also picked at random. That person will report back to me your progress, as will the many cameras around the grounds. If you simply tell the person your assignment, you will fail. You don’t go around saying, _my job is to find out information on your embezzling company_. No. Have some common sense.” He snatches two baskets from two of the tables, then uncovers them to reveal slips of paper. “Ladies first?”

Roxy strolls up, then chooses carefully, plucking one slip from each basket after a few moments of careful deliberation. Next is Charlie, who tries to peek at the names, but stops once Harry gives him a stern look. 

Eggsy’s the third, waiting until he's back in line to read the name and task.

He then grins, and Roxy glances over, raising an eyebrow in his direction. 

"All right, class dismissed," Harry declares, once Hugo picks the last two options, and everyone files out, eager for the prospect of dinner. 

“Strange bloke,” Rufus mutters, reviewing his assignment. “Really liked to hear himself talk.”

“Oi, I forgot something,” Eggsy quickly says to Roxy and begins walking back before she can say anything.

Harry’s waiting, slowly pushing back the chairs and tables against the wall, and Eggsy sidles up to him.

“I liked your class.”

“Oh, don't, it's always boring,” Harry replies. “Too bad I was in a coma during your fighting classes.”

Eggsy pictures Harry taking down Dean’s mates at the Black Prince, all deadly grace and precision. “That would have been nice.”

“It would have,” Harry agrees, then, to his surprise, reaches out and rubs Eggsy’s shoulder. “How are you, Eggsy?”

“I’m all right. Recovered and all.”

Harry says nothing for a long time. “You’re lucky to have Roxy as a friend. Being ripped away from home—from everything you’re familiar with—can be a difficult transition. It was for me.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yes,” Harry says. “I hated the first few weeks here. I had friends and family back home; to be told I couldn’t see them for months enraged me. I took to wandering the grounds alone—sometimes with my dog—and studying away from the others. Everyone pinned me as a dreadful snob.”

“You?” Eggsy tries to picture it: Harry, young and pensive, walking around the same gardens Eggsy likes to when he wants some peace and quiet or studying alone in the dorm, a small dog in his lap. “Did you ever…find anyone?”

“Merlin, but that was after I was inducted,” Harry replies. “There was someone; I liked him well enough to sit next to him during meals and partner up during training sessions, but I never fully trusted him. We were in competition, after all.” He smiles, only this time, it seems solemn. “It’s a lonely existence, being a spy.”

Eggsy steps closer, placing his hand on Harry’s arm. “You don’t have to be alone all the time, yeah?” His heart’s pounding, expecting for Harry to pull away. He wouldn’t blame him; that was a shit come-on.

Harry leans forward, and for a moment, Eggsy thinks that he’ll kiss him and holds his breath—waiting, longing—

“Come to the cabin tonight,” Harry says, so low that Eggsy almost doesn’t hear him. “After supper. I’ll be waiting.”


	7. Chapter 7

Eggsy tries to balance eating quickly enough to see Harry long enough to get back before lights out—Merlin might have let him get away with it once, but likely not twice—but slow enough not to arouse any suspicion. He's had that reputation of savoring each bite of often new dishes, which Charlie likes to mock on occasion, and scarfing it down like a starving dog would be a bit out of character and might add onto the ever-growing list on uncouth behaviors of a chav _._

Roxy does notice, of course, but says nothing other than "slow down a bit, you're going to choke," and Eggsy's sure Merlin's watching every bite. He manages to finish his dinner and eat at least one dessert before heading off to "take JB for a jaunt." 

"Who's my little alibi? Who's my little alibi?" he coos when he reaches the kennels. JB dances, wiggling his bottom and panting in abandon, all while Eggsy's doing his best to clip the lead on his collar. He wonders, a bit briefly, how he's going to explain a new dog to his mum when he gets back—or rather, explain where he's been all this time—and lets himself hope that they won't have to worry about finding food or looking after JB because Eggsy will be able to support them all, minus Dean. Dean can stay in the flat or bunker down with one of his mates, but he's not going to be living with his mum and sister at all. 

And in that new house, with enough room for Daisy to run around, Eggsy will stock the fridge from everything from fresh vegetables and fruit to pastries and puddings, watch Daisy play without fear Dean will come over to kick over her blocks for "fun," and treat his mum to everything he remembers his father mentioning: vacations, new clothes, nights out dancing. A darker side recalls that his mum will have to see a good doctor, an addiction specialist, a psychologist, but Eggsy can dream of it all actually working once she's out from under Dean's thumb. 

And Harry and him—

Lost in the fantasy, Eggsy just nearly avoids bumping into someone—a man with combed-over white hair, glasses, and a grey suit with a pink-striped tie. He looks familiar, but Eggsy can't, for the life of him, recall his name. 

"Sorry, sir," he says quickly. "Wasn't watching where I was goin'."

The man nods. "It's all right," he says, as if the conversation's tiring him before it's even begun. "What are you doing out so late?" 

"Walking my dog," Eggsy replies, motioning for JB to sit. The pug obeys, looking up at the stranger, eager to be petted, but the man doesn't even give JB a glance. 

"Not studying?"

Somehow, that feels like a jab. "No," he says simply.

Nodding again, the man scrutinizes him from head to toe, looking as if he wants to say something, perhaps give him a lecture, but only says, "Best of luck, then." 

Eggsy mutters a good-bye, watching the man walk away, and it comes to him: he was there in the background when Harry was in the hospital bed, while Merlin gave reassurances and advice. Eggsy hadn't really noticed him; his focus had been on Harry, but Eggsy had wished the man would leave. He disliked looking so desperate, so worried, and while he trusted Merlin (or, at least, had gotten used to there being cameras around the manor and, thus, likely have been a target of his not-so-fine moments), he didn't like being so vulnerable around a stranger. Harry had been different; there was something about him that made him approachable—whether it had been the calmness or the fact that he knew his dad—not that cold and stiff and posh. 

And who knew Harry would stay in his life, so much that he'd invite Eggsy here, alo—

He knocks on the door before his thoughts could turn down  _that_ path, though he does take the time to wipe his sweating palms quickly on his trousers before the door opens.

"Eggsy," Harry greets, still in his immaculate suit. 

"Harry," Eggsy replies, still holding onto JB. 

Harry wordlessly steps back to let him in, and when Eggsy steps into the room, he sees an iPod on the table, pushed in the corner with the chairs. "We're going to listen to some music?" 

"That, and dance." 

"Dance?" Eggsy unclips the lead when Harry shuts the door, watching the pug sniff around. "Was I that bad?" 

"No, but a little more experience can be beneficial." 

It's a little stupid, but Eggsy feels a touch disappointed. His hint had been clear, yes? Is Harry side-stepping it in a way only a gentleman can? "I'm all about experiences," he instead says. "But, what's with the teaching how to dance and pick out place settings and dinner manners?" 

"It's just another form to add to your repertoire," Harry easily replies. "Rather important for a gentleman spy."

"Guess you don't go spying much in the non-posh areas, do you?" 

"It comes up." Harry then seamlessly changes tactics: "An interaction with your mark is like a romance. You have to find out what they want and give it to them, whether it is a turn on the dance floor or simple admiration."

"A romance?" Eggsy asks, raising his eyebrows.  

"A romance," Harry says, unfazed, "requires the other person trust you, yes?"

Eggsy nods. 

"Tell me how you case a house."

Eggsy looks up at him sharply, but there's no judgment on Harry's face. 

"I look for cameras, find the alarms, look for a weak spot to enter, pick the lock or go through a window, and..." Eggsy mimes scooping up something.   
  
"Exactly. Just analyze your target the same way you would a house. Find their weak spots. Flattery can mask your intentions, the same way acting innocent or wearing a hood would. Find the right entry point, the right combination, and you can unlock the mark's trust." 

"So, if you were my target..." Eggsy looks at Harry now, tilting his head. "And I wanted something from you, I'd try to butter you up." 

"If you like." And damn him, Harry does not let a single thought in his head form on his face. "But I must tell you straightaway that I'm not as susceptible to flattery as I was in my younger years." 

"You think?" It's like what Harry just said: everyone had a weakness. "What if I said that you're pretty fit?" 

Harry raises his eyebrows. "I already know that." 

"But what you don't know is that whenever I look at you, from your broad shoulders to your large hands, that I think of them. Constantly. When I saw you at the police station, leaning against the wall with the sun in your hair, and when I saw you in the tailor shop, legs crossed with a drink in your hand...did you wait that long for me?" Eggsy steps forward, voice hushed. "Because I didn't know what was going on, what you were going to tell me, but I wanted to get to you. You didn't run like everyone else does; you stayed there and let me come to you." His eyes now linger on each of the features in turn: "I thought while sneaking out of you waiting for me: getting to put my hands on your shoulders, have those hands on my body, seeing you just...look at me, almost hypnotizin' me into coming closer to you. Not to mention your hair, always in some sort of style...I want to run my fingers through it and tug it. And your cock." For a moment, he pauses, wondering if Harry will interject, but Harry's looking at him, so silent and still. "I want that, too. I want all of it, very much." He stands up just the tiniest bit on his toes, murmuring in his ear, "Or, I can just simply take it." 

And with that, Eggsy draws his hand back and dangles Harry's watch. 

He's very pleased when Harry blinks, clearly confused, then looks from his exposed wrist to the watch in Eggsy's grip. "Very good," he finally says, "but you've neglected to persuade me to give it to you." 

"I just did enough so you wouldn't notice." Eggsy backs up, still swinging it by the leather strap. "I might not be smart in table etiquette, but I do know how to be distracting." 

"I have no doubt of that," Harry replies. "But now, Eggsy, might I have that back?" 

"You want it?" Eggsy asks tauntingly. "Come and get it." 

He doesn't know exactly what Harry will do: lunge at him, sweet-talk him, or what, but he hasn't counted on Harry striding forward and holding out his palm. "Give it to me," he repeats. 

"Aw, that all you got?" Eggsy teases. "Harry Hart, spy extraordinaire: that's your strategy?"

"You do realize that I need that watch?" 

"Like you don't have spares." 

"I'm already in trouble for damaging equipment." 

"You can have it back," Eggsy wheedles, "but on a condition." 

"Which is?" 

He doesn't think before he says, "Kiss me."

Harry stops. The tension is almost like before a fight begins, whether if the other person will accept the challenge or run. Usually, though, in the estates, it's accept; otherwise, the shame of stepping down will follow you for life. Jamal still got some shit for backing down when he was eleven and even more when Ryan stepped in for him; everyone has to prove themselves, put their name to what they say they can do, and if that means facing down someone who makes you want to run, then so be it. 

Eggsy doesn't move, doesn't even dare to breathe too loudly. It's Harry's choice. 

And Harry nods. "Come here, then," he says. 

Eggsy strides forward, head held high, tightening his grip around the watch. If Harry thinks he's going to try the same trick, he's going to have a small chance of repeating it. Eggsy's been the pickpocketer and the pickpocketee—if that's a word—and Harry may have spy skills, but he doesn't have _Eggsy's_ skill, honed at an age where Harry was probably losing his baby teeth. 

When he's close enough, so close that Harry's lips nearly brush his, Eggsy swallows. Have they ever kissed? Eggsy quickly rifles through his mind: no, they haven't. Not yet. 

And he would like that. 

But Harry simply turns his head and pecks, almost chastely, Eggsy's cheek, dry and just a second's breath. "A deal's a deal, then," Harry says softly. "May I?" 

Eggsy stands stock-still. Part of him wants to be angry, another part snickering at Harry's wit, another part disappointed, but all he can feel is just a simple  _oh._ "Yeah." He coughs, then hands it over. "All yours." 

He watches Harry take it from his fingers and wind it around his own wrist, slipping the strap through the thin, golden buckle and adjusting it carefully. Every movement seems deliberate, purposeful, and calculated. And after Harry's done, he looks at Eggsy, gaze intense like sunlight in his eyes, and steps forward. 

Eggsy thinks that maybe, Harry's just messing with him, that he will actually give him a proper kiss, but instead, Harry takes Eggsy's right hand and guides his left to go around his waist. "First, a waltz." And in his ear, Harry says, "Box step."

"Yes, Harry," Eggsy sighs, and begins.  


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have decided to try my hand at weekly updates, so feel free to vote on which date you want it updated [here.](https://docs.google.com/forms/d/1MWYUmDJ_-VPfyadmJp8oW4Nx_Awqf3c9bLX6TltPKeA/viewform?ths=true&edit_requested=true)

It's after the parachute test that Eggsy begins to realize something seems different. 

At first, he thinks it's just the quiet. Since Hugo, Digby, and Rufus got eliminated, the morning boot camp and afternoon classes seem emptier. There's no jostling or whispering from the back of the room, where Charlie and his cohorts usually sat, and the usual rounds of teasing have subsided, though Charlie persists in snickering at him and doing petty things like stealing his boots in the morning. 

But Charlie alone seems almost pathetic. Without his mates to back him up, he just comes off as petty and sneering. Roxy's confided to Eggsy that Charlie's actually tried to engage her in small talk. He hasn't outright begged for company, but these days, he strolls the grounds on his free days with either his dog or by himself. While Roxy and Eggsy quiz each other or simply chat in their beds, side by side, Charlie sits off alone with a book spread in his lap, only occasionally interjecting with comments of his own. 

In addition, there's new, more intense classes that seem to test by the individual. It's the final three, so it makes sense, but it just reminds everyone how little time there is left to step into the mantle of Lancelot. Merlin still keeps them on the track and through sadistic obstacle courses now and then, but now, classes are mostly devoted to psychology and sociology and triggering certain parts of the mind. It's not just learning to beat people up with your body, but also to uncover people's fears and hopes and dreams with only your wits and intelligence. 

"Sometimes, that's all you have," Merlin now says. "Sometimes, it's just you and the mark. Your equipment might not work as expected, your ride might not be arriving at the exact moment you want it to, or your partner can't run interference for you. You can't just shoot them. You have to talk your way out of it." He then sighs. "Especially if you get captured." 

He then has them line up for some surprise lie detector tests, and Charlie, to no one's surprise, scores at the bottom, used to saying what he wants without consequence. Roxy is at the top—"if you grew up with my family, you'd learn how to lie"—and Eggsy would have gotten first if Merlin— _Merlin—_ got out his file and began to grill him about Dean, the frequent hospital visits, the arrest reports, the short-lived attempt at a military career. 

"They're not going to hold back," Merlin had said, after he'd announced the end of Eggsy's test. "You're good at denying, but there are certain things that make you tick. The job is not to repress those things, but to hold off whoever's trying to get to you long enough." He allowed Eggsy to stand, Eggsy giving the machine a brief scowl. "Then again, lad, you do have more to work with." 

After that, Merlin shows them how to increase their heart rates at the basic questions of _what's your name?_ and _how old are you?_ to make the results seem inconsistent, to not get lulled by questions that don't seem to pertain to Kingsman itself, to take enough time to slow down their breathing but quick enough so the interrogator won't notice, to answer in sentences less than ten words. He tells them how to make eye contact, to look relaxed, to give open and friendly gestures, such as a stretched-out hand. He coaches them through various scenarios: when all or a little information has been drawn to the attention of the target, when the target is not interesting but the agent must distract them, when the target is  _too_ interested and the agent has to get away. 

And he also warns them of what's to come.

Torture—not that Merlin makes them practice on actual people or anything, but he does make them stand in front of a dummy that lights up with different colors to indicate pain levels. 

"Kingsman uses physical torture as a last resort," Merlin warns. "This is not to be used lightly. I know it's glamorized and claims to have results, but people will say anything to make the pain stop."

He doesn't specifically look at anyone, but Eggsy still feels shame spreading from his chest like a poison. Maybe he can't say he's been the target of thumb-screws or limb removal, but Dean and his mates have made him beg or simply surrender by fists and kicks. When he got older, he was able to endure a little more and fight back, but Dean had the power. Dean held the whip. Dean held their financial security, Eggsy's mum, his own daughter, and their chances of escape in his hand, and he could easily crush them. 

"The best torture, however, is a little kindness," Merlin says. "A Japanese proverb goes,  _One kind word can warm three winter months._ Look at Roald Dahl's 'Beware of the Dog.' Stockholm Syndrome is a danger not only to the individual, but to Kingsman itself. Now, what's the term for when the captor begins to sympathize with their prisoner?"

Roxy raises her hand. "Lima Syndrome," she says, and beside her, Charlie nods, face obviously hopeful. 

"Correct." Merlin sighs. "This is rare, so don't count on this to happen very often, but any information you gain is valuable. But again..." He looks at them all. "Loyalty to Kingsman is the most important thing. Do you all understand?" 

Everyone nods, but none seem overly willing to pledge allegiance just yet. Charlie's looking at the red glow from the needle Merlin just stabbed into the inner thigh, and Eggsy thinks,  _You won't even survive past the first ten minutes._

* * *

 It's when Harry relieves them for a brief NLP lesson, and Eggsy realizes it. 

There are no more late night meetings or significant glances. Harry instead chooses Roxy for his dance partner and only speaks to Eggsy when he's in need of corrections. He assigns more homework (they'd all failed their last assignment) and makes no move to draw Eggsy over at the end of class. He's not rude or anything, but he's cool and stiffly polite. 

Eggsy tells himself Harry can't show favoritism, but at Roxy's throwaway mention of her sponsor wanting a free day with her to practice her German, Eggsy wonders why Harry hasn't mentioned them. He does need some help; he will admit that, but simply just wants to spend time with him. The dancing lesson had been strictly professional after Eggsy's piss-poor attempt to kiss Harry, and Eggsy just wants to clear the air. 

But after two weeks of snubbing, Eggsy thinks,  _Fine, I can take a hint._ He's not going to sulk around and play Celine Dion and drink. He's going to try his hardest to be Lancelot, whether Harry wants something more from him or not. 

He trains. He studies. He gets as much sleep as he can. 

And he tells himself he's not thinking of anything else. 

* * *

 It's Charlie who starts the trouble, and Eggsy jerks his head up from his notes when Charlie crows, "Oh, what's this?"

He's holding Harry's book in one hand, with the note telling Eggsy to meet him, and Eggsy's blood runs cold. Jb raises his head, growling a little; he hasn't liked Charlie ever since he dumped water on him and the bed. Roxy's poodle looks up, snorts, and lays back down, while Charlie's German Shepherd lazily thumps his tail.    

"It's a book," Eggsy says, trying not to look panicked. He's learned this in the estate, to not give anyone the idea you'd be desperate enough for a certain thing because those who could would do their best to take it. Even if they didn't want it, they liked being able to think that they could, just to see you try and beg for it. 

"Give it up, Charlie," Roxy says, looking up from her own set of notes. "Just because you're bored doesn't mean you can start anything." 

Charlie waves it at her, pages flapping. "Make me." He begins to read: " _Between dark stems the forest glows, / I hear a noise of hymns_ _...'"_

"It's mine," Roxy suddenly interrupts, voice steely. 

"Then what's it doing in Eggsy's locker?" 

"First, you shouldn't be digging through people's things," Roxy scolds. "And second, I let him borrow it." 

Charlie points to the initials on the note. "Then who's this?" 

"My sponsor." Eggsy can only stare at Roxy, astonished about what she's doing for him. "Really, Charlie, you should be studying for our exam tomorrow."

Charlie looks from Eggsy to Roxy, then back again. "Fine," he sighs, then hands it back to Roxy. "Whatever, then."

Eggsy resists the urge to snatch it away and hold it close to his chest. He has notes like this from Harry, the first one tucked into a fresh pair of pajamas after the water test:  _You’re doing well._   _Keep your chin up_. Kingsman seized all personal possessions—much to everyone’s dismay—but since Eggsy left without packing so much as an extra jacket, he didn’t mind that much, except that he couldn’t call on his shitty Nokia to see how his family was doing. _All part of the secrecy_ , Harry had said, but gave him covert reports between the pages of paperback novels.

He later gets out one of them after lights out, along with a small torch he’d kept after one of the navigation exercises, and pulls the covers over his head.

He can feel JB shuffling restlessly at the foot of the bed, his tiny body rubbing up against his feet. His dog is so small that Eggsy worries about stepping on him—“I hear their eyes pop out if you hug them too hard,” Roxy once mentioned—and even though JB’s stubborn and chews on everything he can reach, there’s something endearing about him. Eggsy’s never had a pet before, and this time, he can properly take care of someone without worrying about whether the next meal will make it to his stomach or the power blowing a fuse. 

“Hey, JB,” Eggsy whispers, pulling the pug underneath the blankets with him. “Want to read along with me?”

JB nuzzles into his side, as Eggsy opens his book and begins to read, voice low to not wake anyone else up: _“She looked at him, and she smiled, gently and ruefully. ‘Whither thou goest…’ she whispered. Hand in hand the young man and the fallen star approached the gap in the wall…”_


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A majority of you voted for Friday, so Friday updates it shall be!

To everyone's surprise, Merlin gives an announcement during breakfast. "You all have a free day," he says. "Use it wisely."

Eggsy looks at Roxy, who looks just as confused as he does. He wants to ask Merlin why, why so close to choosing someone for Lancelot, but holds his tongue. Merlin wouldn't answer anyway. "What's the plan for today, then?" he asks instead, taking another bite of his bangers and mash. 

"Maybe I'll visit my sponsor," Charlie cuts in, and both Roxy and Eggsy ignore him. Even though candidates aren't allowed to talk about them, Charlie's been dropping hints on and off about his, so much that Eggsy and Roxy have put together a list of what they know: that the guy's likely a Hesketh or a close family friend, that he's old, that he's wealthy, and that he and Charlie share very similar attitudes towards the lower classes. Personally, Eggsy thinks Charlie's sponsor seems like a bit of a twat, and part of him wonders if all the other agents are like that. Most likely, Harry's the exception to the posh snobbery, and the thought of only one agent having his back out of nine makes Eggsy wonder if the rest of his life will be the same: taunting, but with the people more well-dressed. 

"I think I'll study and walk around a bit," Roxy replies, finishing the last of her tea. "We've been indoors so much that I almost forget what being outside is like, and I think Lady would enjoy some time around the grounds, too." 

"Might take you up on that," Eggsy offers, standing up, with Roxy following suit. "I bet there's places we haven't even seen yet around here."

"That's a nice idea," Roxy says, looking cheerful. "I wonder if Kingsman has any stables? I haven't ridden in ages, and we have so much land around here. My uncle used to take me horseback riding..."

Their conversation lasts a few good hours, as they explore the grounds and occasionally let the dogs romp and tear clear across the grass. Eggsy learns a little bit about Roxy's uncle: the normally serious composure, the puzzles he used to give to Roxy at every birthday, the private codes he and Roxy snuck into letters, the spiriting away from dull parties, the packages he'd sent her while she was at boarding school, the way he'd laugh at his partner's antics. She avoids the topic of her parents as much as she can, but Eggsy senses her uncle is the only real family she's ever had. 

"He's the one who encouraged me to go into the military," she says, watching Lady pounce on JB, who happily rolls around, barking and snorting. "He was always doing that, making sure I'd try new things or push me to do my best, while my parents didn't seem to care what I did." Roxy shrugs casually, but her next sentence is wistful: "It's just nice for someone to believe in you for a change, I suppose."

Eggsy nods. "Yeah," he replies. There's nothing like it, someone who can turn your world around by simply giving you a chance. 

Just when he's about to ask Roxy how she feels about getting some lunch, they hear footsteps and turn around to see Merlin coming towards them, tablet in hand.

"Roxy?" Merlin asks when he reaches them. "May I see you for a moment?" 

Roxy nods, unperturbed. "All right. Should I bring Lady with me?" 

Merlin shakes his head. "No, we have to stop by the kennels on our way to drop her off."

"I can take her back," Eggsy offers. He tries to scrutinize Merlin's neutral expression, immediately discarding the notion that Roxy's in some sort of trouble and hoping that her sponsor hasn't been hurt like Harry had been. 

"Much appreciated, then," Merlin replies, beckoning Roxy to follow him. Looking perfectly calm, she hands Lady's leash to Eggsy and trails after Merlin towards the manor, and Eggsy watches them go, with JB panting curiously after them. 

* * *

It's when Eggsy's going back to studying the pillars of NLP, legs crossed on his bed and JB curled up at his side, when Merlin comes in. "We'll put JB away, and we'll head on out," he says, waiting for Eggsy to quickly toss his notes into his locker and haul JB up in his arms.

After Eggsy kisses JB goodbye and follows Merlin into a narrow hallway, he starts worrying. Roxy still hasn't come back, and with a brief jolt of panic, Eggsy wonders if she's been sent home. Sure, they're technically competitors, but if he has to be stuck with Charlie for an indeterminate amount of time, he'll go mad.

 _Charlie_. No, he tries to reassure himself, there's no way Charlie would beat out Roxy.

Merlin leads him to what looks like the medical wing, but instead of a bed, there's a chair that looks like those bulky, reclining ones you see at the dentist. It's covered in an olive-green shade of leather, a bit cracked and worn, and the headrest looks stiff, just barely touching the lamp hanging above the chair like a lure of an angler fish. In front of the chair is a television screen, and Merlin's standing near the light switch, tapping his tablet a few times before approaching the silver cart pushed near the counter with a sink and some paper towels, q-tips, and a small remote control. 

For a horrible moment, Eggsy wonders if Merlin's going to bind him to the chair and torture him, then tries to laugh it off as a result of too many horror flicks he's seen with Jamal and Ryan. He looks at Merlin, who's picking up something from the cart, and freezes. 

Instead of a dentist's drill or shining knives, there's a single needle and syringe, filled with some sort of clear liquid. 

Merlin gestures to the chair. "Sit down, please." 

Eggsy eyes the needle, then backs away. "No," he says, heart speeding up. He'll do a lot of things, but drugs are not one of them. Not anymore. 

"Eggsy," Merlin says, "it's harmless. Just..."

"I won't." Eggsy shakes his head. "How do you fucking know if it's _completely_ harmless?" 

"You can back out of it any time you want," Merlin continues, his voice soothing. "You just press the buzzer," he gestures to the red button on the right arm of the chair, "and we'll take you out of it." 

"Out of what?" Eggsy steps farther away towards the door. "I've seen enough movies. You're going to test my biggest fear or something, aren't you? You can get me to take a psych eval, or I can tell you myself, but you're not going to drug me." 

"Eggsy—"

"Are you going to throw me out, then?" Eggsy asks. If they'll chuck him, that's the only way he'll consider letting Merlin stick that needle in, and half of him already's working up arguments. He can't lose control, he can't feel groggy and unprepared, and he can't let anyone hold that kind of power over him. He came here to not feel so helpless, not ever again, and maybe he's being prideful and stupid, but he won't go back to who he was. 

Shouldn't have this been in his file? Doesn't Kingsman have some sort of basic human rights contract? Questions about exactly what an independent organization can do whirl through his mind. Eggsy's never really trusted authority, and what kind of authority was Kingsman if they were willing to conduct some sort of experiment on him?

Merlin pauses for the longest time, before shaking his head. "No," he finally answers. "You're not going to be thrown out."

"Good." Eggsy doesn't let down his guard, though. "Then, if you don't have anything else for me..."

"Go," Merlin says, and Eggsy can't tell whether he's disappointed in him or not. "I think it's best if you take a walk, Eggsy."

Eggsy ducks his head, muttering a _yes, sir._  He turns, not looking back, heart jolting, preparing for Merlin to change his mind and drag him back. Already intent on finding JB, Eggsy walks quickly through the halls, looking for a door. And after JB, he could search for Roxy—

He wonders if Roxy or Charlie refused, too, but is pretty sure they let Merlin inject them. 

* * *

When he comes back into the dormitory, JB in the tow, Roxy rushes up to him and grabs his arm. "Eggsy, you're not going to like this, but please, _please_ don't do anything rash..."

"Rox, I don't know what—"

Then, he sees one of the loos.

Stuffed inside, the battered, purple cover and folded-down pages float ever so gently in the swirling water, which has nearly risen to the seat cover. There's the faint, whirling sound after a flush in the quiet room, and without thinking, Eggsy plunges his hand into the toilet and holds the sopping book over it, watching water drip back into the bowl. Rage and dismay and humiliation squeeze his chest, and all he can do is stand where he is. 

"What the fuck," Eggsy finally manages to say. 

"Eggsy," Roxy begins, laying a hand on his shoulder, but Eggsy whirls on Charlie, who's nonchalantly thumbing through one of Merlin's manuals. 

"What is your fucking deal?" he snaps, holding the book protectively to his chest. 

"So it _was_ yours," Charlie replies, and Eggsy's about ready to punch him when he takes a good look at his bed—or rather, the bare mattress. 

"Oh, hilarious," Eggsy says, moving towards his locker. "God, you're such a prick—" He opens it, reaching for a change of sheets on one of the shelves—  
  
Not there—his locker is fucking empty: no clothes, no paperbacks, no jumpsuit, no extra boots, not even the tiny bottle of ibuprofen from when he was sick.  
  
Eggsy glares. "Where the fuck is my stuff?"  
  
Charlie laughs, giving up on his casual air. "Somewhere you can't find them!"  
  
Roxy shoves him, hard enough to make him stumble, but light enough to make sure she's not reprimanded for fighting. "Fuck you, Charlie!" she snaps. "Don't think Merlin isn't going to know about this!"

Dean’s taken his stuff before. He’s even tried to snap Dad’s medal right from the chain, and Eggsy had screamed, pounded at his chest as the metal links twisted around his neck, when his mum had grabbed Dean’s shoulders and yanked him away. _You leave him alone, Dean!_ she'd shouted, and Eggsy had let himself hope that this was the moment that she'd throw out Dean for good.  _That's all he has left of his father; you can't—_

But Dean had hit her, hard across the face, and it had been when he was beginning to help her up that he realized Dean had retreated. Part of him wanted to follow him and smash his face in. But in the end, he stayed with his mum, finding a package of frozen peas and watching her try not to cry in front of him. This was before his Marine aspirations, before Daisy, and Eggsy still held out that his mum would pack up her things and leave with him, but Dean always came back, whether it was in their thoughts about him being their only source of steady income or Dean in the flesh, doing something like paying for the groceries or taking them out to the movies for the day, something like silent apologies that had eventually stopped all together. And they hadn't been _apologies_ , not really, just a bait and balm to make it seem like they needed him. 

JB pulls on his leash, fussing at Charlie, and Eggsy forces himself back into the present. "What the fuck did you do that for?" he demands. 

“We know how you got into Kingsman,” Charlie sneers, hands on his hips. "Cozied up to some agent who had a soft spot for overgrown mutts, yeah? Bet he's regretting that now."   
  
"Fuck you," Eggsy says, as viciously as he can, then pivoting on his heel, heads for the door. He hears Roxy call out after him, and Charlie laugh again before Eggsy slams the door behind him and is back storming down the hallways of the manor.   
  
He isn't sure where he's going, but he's not going back in there. Charlie can't really hurt him—there's a protocol Merlin had rattled off about intentional sabotage—but Eggsy isn't eager to hear more of his shit. 

On a day other than this, Eggsy would have engaged in a full-on verbal duel with Charlie, but today, he just wants to walk away, and he's cocked that up today, hasn't he? But no, Merlin said he wouldn't get thrown out, so he doesn't care, doesn't care as long as he still has a chance.   
  
"I don't give a fuck," he repeats to himself furiously. "I don't give a fuck."  
  
"About what?"

Eggsy nearly jumps at the familiar voice, turning to see a bemused Harry Hart just behind him, suit and hair impeccable as always.  
  
"What are you doing out here?" Harry asks.   
  
"Charlie," Eggsy says, clenching his jaw. "Charlie stole my stuff and chucked your...your book in the loo." He trembles, holding the paperback out like a schoolboy handing over a cigarette to the teacher, waiting for punishment. “It's ruined; I’m so sorry—“

Harry takes it from him. “Nothing to worry about. I’ve dropped a great many books in the bathtub and in lakes myself. And in loos—well, I can't say it's happened, but it drove my mother mad when I'd take one in to read in the bathroom.”

Whether it's true or not, it makes Eggsy smile, just a little bit, before his gaze draws to the sodden book in Harry's hand. Already, the pages are curling, wavy like seaweed.  “But it’s yours—let me…” _Pay for it,_ he wants to say, but closes his mouth. He hasn't got any money on him; nothing but JB and his clothes are his own, and he can't offer Harry anything that will be a good trade. 

“It’ll be perfectly all right once we take a blow dryer to it,” Harry reassures him, with a placating smile. Eggsy can't believe how calm he is about this and how...well, it's a one-eighty from how it's been for the past few weeks. “Now, shall we continue this conversation someplace where we can sit down?" 

It’s not a far walk to one of the secluded corridors, and Eggsy watches when Harry presses a fingertip to a scanner and ushers him into a room, opening the door and allowing him to step through first. 

"Do you live here?" Eggsy asks, looking around as soon as Harry flicks on the light. There's a desk and a bed, along with a nightstand, then an open door, which has a full-length mirror on the back, that leads to a washroom, and a window that looks out onto the grounds. A closed laptop is sitting on the desk, along with some files, and Eggsy only catches a few names before Harry steps forward and begins rearranging them. The walls are bare, not a single photograph or personal touch; whether it's a spy thing or a Harry thing, Eggsy doesn't know.  
   
"No, temporary quarters—a place to retire if I'm too tired to drag myself to my house. Terribly plain, I hope you don't mind."  
  
"Nah, it's bigger than my own room," Eggsy says. "Looks good." JB snorts, already beginning to sniff around this new room, and Eggsy turns to ask, "What are you still doing here, then?"  
  
"Just looking into a case I have," Harry replies, then says no more about it. Which, of course, is expected, but Eggsy wonders if the recon mission, the one Harry came from when he was wearing a tuxedo the last time they shared a meal together, is related to it. "In the meantime, are you going to stay here?"

"I can leave if you like..." 

"Trust me, Eggsy, I don't mind. In fact, I was going to order dinner from the kitchens, and I'd be delighted if you joined me. What would you like?"

Eggsy shrugs. "What you're having, I guess."

Harry presses the button on an intercom near the desk. "Hello, this is Galahad," he says. "Yes, I'd like two, hm, if you still have that beef, ale, and parsnip pudding, that would be nice. And let's see, perhaps a side of roasted vegetables and a few pasties and...hm, two slices of banoffee pie." Releasing the button, he steps away and gestures for Eggsy to sit somewhere, and Eggsy obediently plants his arse on the chair pulled towards the window. 

Finally, Harry speaks: "I hear you turned down Merlin's assessment." 

Eggsy bristles. "Yeah?" he asks defensively. 

"I'm can't blame you," Harry says mildly. "It's very unpleasant."

Eggsy wonders how Harry reacted. He's never thought of Harry being anything more than unruffled and calm before, and it's a bit strange, like picturing a vapid Roxy or a nice Charlie. He still doesn't know what would have happened to him if he'd let Merlin inject him and is just about to ask when Harry adds, "Besides, I believe you would have passed, anyhow." 

"Really?"

"You're strong-minded." Harry looks down, at JB snuffling at the carpet, then returns his focus to Eggsy. "You don't know the circumstances of others, and even if you do, there's no way to calculate how long they'll be able to stand them, if at all."

Eggsy sighs. "Honestly, Harry, what do you really see in that mirror?" He gestures at the bathroom door.  
  
Harry's touch is gentle when he places both hands on Eggsy's shoulders and turns him around to face his reflection. "I still see a young man with potential." Eggsy tries not to think that this is the closest proximity they've been in since the last night at the cabin. "A young man who is being tested by fire, and being forged instead of burned."  
  
"I don't feel like it much right now."  
  
"You are much more than you think."  
  
There's something so honest, so fond in Harry's expression that Eggsy freezes, not sure what to do with himself other than to stare back. He wants to demand answers from Harry, flay into him about him acting like a stone-cold arsehole, but this isn't some daytime soap opera, and he's not the pouty, whiny girlfriend who keeps track of her boyfriend's texts.

But he doesn't want to give Harry the impression that he can just throw him away and take him back without any consequences.

"You were dodging me, weren't you?" he asks. 

Harry sighs. "Yes," he admits. "But—"

There's a knock on the door, and Harry stands up, clearly glad to have been interrupted. "That was quick." After thanking the man, he retrieves the food from a cart and lays out the plates and utensils, topped with shiny silver domes, on the desk. "Would you like anything to drink? I have a bit of a stash in one of the desk drawers." Harry opens the lowest one on the left, examining a bottle. "Well, this might do; it's just enough to share." 

"All right." Eggsy waits until Harry pours a generous amount into two glasses before going, "So, you _were_ dodging me?" 

"Yes." Harry takes the dome off his plate and becomes intently focused on the butter-soaked asparagus. "But believe me, it wasn't out of malice. I was simply—"

"If you say you were too busy, then don't bother." 

"No. No. I am busy, but..." Harry picks up his fork. "Arthur thinks I'm not focusing enough. He's been giving me all sorts of busy work and has been dropping cryptic hints that he doesn't like the nightly excursions where I go off by myself and return so late, especially out of sight of the cameras. He doesn't much like other people not following the rules."

Eggsy starts in on his own dinner; it  _does_ smell good, and he can't just sit here and stare Harry down. "Do you think..."

"I don't know," Harry says. Of course he knows what he's about to say. "But I apologize for my actions." 

"Yes, well..." He can't quite point a finger at a certain piece of evidence, but suspects there's more to it than Harry's boss not approving of what Harry (and Eggsy) are up to. "And...what else is up with you?" 

Harry pauses. "I will tell you later. I promise, Eggsy, later." 

"When is later?" 

Harry only shakes his head. "In due time. I'll bring it up myself." He then places a cube of beef in his mouth, chewing slowly, a clear indication that this conversation is over, and Eggsy follows his lead. 

He knows he's got to go back. If Roxy hasn't found all of his things, he has to do it himself, and there's no way he's going to run tattling to Merlin.

But right now, he's going to take this peace with Harry, and soon, hopefully, he'll find out what Harry's been keeping from him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written to Banks’s “Warm Water” and that scene from _And When Did You Last See Your Father?_

"I feel like we've had this conversation before," Merlin says, "but what were you doing with Eggsy?"

"I was sharing a meal with him. We talked. And he went on his way before lights out." Harry resists the urge to cross his arms like some adolescent getting caught sneaking someone into their room. "And I'll have you know that Charlie—" 

"I know what Charlie did," Merlin says. To his credit, he looks disapproving, but continues, "However, you can’t expect me to simply rush in whenever—"

"I know you're a proponent of the candidates learning to fight their own battles," Harry interrupts sharply. He knows the logic behind it. He knows some of these candidates had never had been able to fend for themselves—money and family connections played a major part in that—and they had to learn that sometimes no one would be able to swoop in and rescue them if someone looked at them funny, or worse. But all the same…

_ Eggsy's been fighting his own battles since he was seven,  _ he wants to retort. _ You don't need to test what he can stand.  _

Merlin seems to know what he's thinking anyway. "And I still am,” he says firmly. “These are petty pranks. No one has tried to seriously injure him or actively try to get him thrown out. If you don’t think Eggsy can handle that, you shouldn’t have proposed him.” 

“Of course I think Eggsy can handle that,” Harry defends. “I just don’t like seeing him—”

“Hurt? Harry, if he becomes an agent, he’s going to get hurt. Even the tests themselves carry risks.” 

“You don’t have to remind me.” 

Merlin winces. “I apologize, Harry. Lee—” 

“Lee was my mistake,” Harry interrupts. “And I have a case to work on. Good night.” 

As Harry heads for his room, he regrets speaking so harshly to his friend. Merlin hadn't meant anything by it, and Harry, in an ungentlemanly fashion, allowed his stress to rule his actions. There was Valentine, the missing celebrities, the SIM cards, trying to figure out how all the pieces came together, and Eggsy. 

_ Eggsy _ .

A better man would have stayed away from Eggsy. A better man would have been disgusted by himself by acting in such an irresponsible manner as to blatantly show a non-platonic preference for a candidate. A better man wouldn't have plied Eggsy with food and gifts and affection to the point where Eggsy himself tried to return the favors. 

No, no. Eggsy knows his own mind, Harry’s sure. If Eggsy’s responding as sort of sick sense of obligation, Harry will consider himself the worst kind of monster, collecting on a debt that isn't meant to be a debt in the first place. 

But Eggsy had, Harry's certain, never been in love. Lust, of course—if Harry were dim on that front, he would have known when Eggsy distracted him when trying to get the watch—but not love. 

_ He's three times your age _ , Harry reminds himself now, slamming the door behind him and heading towards the bathroom.  _ He wasn't even born when you were sixteen.  _

With harsh jerks to the the taps, Harry stands back as water spurts from the faucet in noisy, greedy gushes. The prospect of a hot bath and a good night’s rest seems promising and might have him relax—if Kingsman hadn't so thoroughly trained the concept of true relaxation out of him. 

But he does need to stop thinking, thinking so much about what lies ahead of Eggsy passes his loyalty test, the twenty-four hours. Lee had made it, and Harry suggested he'd go home. 

"Listen," he had said, "I know you miss your wife and son. You haven't seen them in months. Just go see them, and you can get to know me after you become Lancelot." 

After more protests—no one could accuse Lee of being less than a gentleman—Lee went back home, and Harry made sure to get a car around for Lee just in time to reach the manor. 

Michelle, hair cut in a neat row above her shoulders, had looked at him curiously, but shook his hand and asked him if he'd like tea and biscuits. Lee had accepted for him, raving about her baking and how she should go onto  _ The Great British Baking Show _ , and Michelle flushed and told him to stop. They'd looked so happy together that Harry felt like an intruder, and once he'd eaten enough biscuits to be polite—but they were indeed very good—told Lee they had to go. 

Lee kissed Michelle goodbye, then his son, who had quietly shoved biscuit after biscuit into his mouth, staring at Harry with wide eyes. 

“He's normally like that with strangers,” Lee had explained in the car. “Not a very talkative boy.”

_ Boy _ , Harry thinks. _ You're in love with a boy.  _

Harry undresses slowly, folding each article of clothing and placing them on the sink, along with his glasses. The mirror is already beginning to fog up, and Harry briefly swishes his hand through the water before turning the faucet off. 

Settling into the bath, he stretches out as much as his legs will allow and lets the heat soothe his aching muscles. 

Twenty-four hours with Eggsy. Twenty-four hours of Eggsy eating his food, sleeping in his house—

Sleeping in the guest room, covers pulled to his chest, eyes closed. Harry had wanted to ask Eggsy to stay with him, had thought of letting Eggsy slip on a pair of his own pyjamas, had thought of waiting for him to slip underneath the covers once he brushed his teeth. But it had not come to pass. 

The water laps against his chin. 

But what would have happened if he’d given into Eggsy’s request that night? What would have happened if Harry had been more selfish, allowed himself to graze more than Eggsy’s cheek? 

Before Harry’s mind can tell him to stop, he takes his cock in one hand, placing the other hand flat against the surface of the tub. 

Instead of their dance lesson, they would have fallen back on the bed where Harry gave Eggsy a massage. How he’d acted so rashly—how easily he’d leapt at the chance to touch Eggsy without considering the consequences. But there is no denying how he can still easily recall Eggsy's flesh underneath his fingers, how pliant and trusting he’d been, how he had moaned and sighed so openly in that little room. 

He now imagines Eggsy stepping forward, watch clutched between his fingers, as Harry’s own thumb rubs over the slit of his head. He thinks about pressing his lips to Eggsy’s, tasting the soft heat of his mouth, thumbs pressing gently into his cheeks, just below eyes that are foggy days along the seaside. He thinks about Eggsy backing him against the bed, bending down as Harry sits, and continuing the kiss. He thinks about stripping Eggsy of the shapeless boiler suit, letting Eggsy pull Harry’s suit off, piece by piece, and getting to touch each other at last.

His hand is steady, as if this were another bomb to defuse or a trigger to be pulled, heedless of the worries trying to leak through the haze of pleasure. Harry knows by now what he likes and how much to give himself, to control his desire until he needs to release, to get lost in a fantasy before it ends. 

He’s focused on Eggsy’s pleasure, caring nothing of his own, nuzzling underneath his jaw and kissing the exposed skin as delicately as planting bugs. Eggsy sighs, reaches for him, as Harry’s hands roam over his shoulders and back and arse, and Harry hears Eggsy swearing colorfully underneath his breath when when Harry's fingers slip between his legs. In the bathtub, Harry's left hand ghosts over his chest, the small of his back, his hip, the places he wants Eggsy to touch but never has, and closing his eyes, he tries to remember what it's like. It's been so long since he'd be intimate with another human being and far longer since that human being was someone he'd cared about. 

The fantasy falters, just about to slip away when  Harry comes, pressing his lips together to prevent any noises from escaping, an old habit from his boarding school days that had been nurtured during his Kingsman tenure. Eggsy’s name is on his tongue, and he wonders what it would be like to say his name like this, either a shout or sigh...

_ No _ , Harry thinks. His pride had contributed to the end of Lee, and it won't play a part in Eggsy’s journey.  _ Not until he becomes Lancelot _ .

He makes himself promise.  _ Not until Lancelot,  _ he repeats, as he steps out of the bath and watches the water drain out.  _ Not until Lancelot.  _


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“A bird and a fish may fall in love, signor, but where would they live?”_
> 
> _“Then I shall have to make you wings."_

Eggsy has nothing to wear for his honeypot test.

Roxy’s prepared with a gorgeous, dark blue dress with a skirt short enough to draw eyes, but with elbow-length lace sleeves to suggest that she’s a bit more sophisticated than the other girls that should be at the club. Her hair’s out of her usual ponytail and falls gracefully down her back, and the way she rereads her file already says that she knows her strategy. 

“First, heights, now a bird to seduce instead of a bloke?” Eggsy comments, going through his locker one more time. Maybe he can wear a clean button-down, the one that’s always tucked underneath his boiler suit, with...does Merlin have the clothes he arrived in on the first day? If they’ve been given a wash—they definitely would smell rank after a night in a jail cell and a full ‘nother day’s wear—they should be fine.  

Roxy’s tone is perfectly dry, as a sharp  _ thwip  _ of paper turning snaps against the silence. “What makes you think this is going to be tough?”

Before Eggsy can reply, Charlie, in some dandy outfit, steps into the room, briefly running his hand through artfully-tousled hair. He glances at himself in the mirror—a one-way now, of course—then turns to sneer at Eggsy, still in his training clothes. “I’m sure Lady Sophie is going to be all over your tartan onesie. Do you think she’ll have some sort of plaid fetish?”

Eggsy hates to listen to anything that comes out of Charlie’s mouth, especially since he’s wearing a velvet jacket, but he’s right. Not for the first time, Eggsy wishes Harry would have at least let him grab a few things before ordering him to go to the Kingsman shop. Of course, he figured they’d would simply chat or something—Eggsy certainly never expected to get offered a job and the room to turn into some giant lift that took them directly to a bullet tube.

Ignoring him, Eggsy turns to Roxy, pointing at her dress. “How did you know to grab that?” 

Roxy shrugs. “My sponsor told me to pack something fancy.” She rolls her eyes. “Of course, I already had; my mother instilled into me that you have to have at least one nice outfit in case you’re invited to a party on vacation.”

Eggsy eyes her dress. “That is  _ not  _ what normal people wear to a party.” 

“It is if someone with an absurdly long name asks you to.” Roxy crosses her arms. “And of course, if you’re the only girl in the family, you’re expected to start husband hunting as soon as you can.”

Eggsy pauses. He can’t really imagine it. He’s had a handful of people he’d not exactly dated—messed about with, really—and hadn’t considered bringing them home to the cluttered flat, full of cigarette smoke, fumes of Dean’s latest “purchase” from one of his dogs, and high-trigger tempers. Several times, he thought about moving in with a mate or a girlfriend someday—he’d never considered anyone other than a bird—but never went through with it. He’d been too afraid of what Dean would do, and Eggsy had only left when his stepdad quieted down when Michelle announced her pregnancy. Eggsy had hoped that somewhere inside of Dean was someone who wake up and do right by his new kid, but that had been dashed to bits when his mum called him during training, tearfully pleading for him to come home.  

And marriage? Forget about it. He never met anyone he liked enough to give his heart away to, like his mum, and he definitely didn’t want what happened to her when Harry Hart strode into their flat and handed her a medal. 

“All right, everyone, let’s—Eggsy?” Merlin strides in with his clipboard, taking in his clothes with a frown. “Is this what you’re going to wear?”

“I don’t have anything,” Eggsy mutters, mindful of Charlie’s choked snicker 

Merlin frowns understandably. “Ah,” he says guiltily. 

“Do you have my old clothes? Ooh, or does Kingsman have a secret closet or summat? I mean, you  _ are _ tailors.”

Before Merlin can reply, his glasses beep, and he asks, “Galahad?”

Eggsy perks up, as the quartermaster makes small _mm-hm_ s and once raises his eyebrows so high that they look as if they might climb off his face. He glances at Roxy, who’s tilting her head in confusion, and shrugs back, quickly turning to make eye contact with Merlin, who had been watching their brief exchange.

“Harry says he has a solution. Meet him at his quarters.” His voice lowers. “I trust you know where they are?”

Eggsy knows the way, of course, and keeps a perfectly straight face, while replying deferentially, “Yes, sir.”

When he gets there by half-jogging down the hallways, Eggsy simply turns the knob and steps in, noting the desk with huge stacks of papers, where Harry was sitting in a comfortable leather swivel chair

Harry then rises from his seat, as if Eggsy’s some sort of visiting dignitary. “Eggsy,” he greets, with a fond smile. “I swear that you’ve gotten taller since we last saw each other.”

“I wish,” Eggsy says, touching the strands have begun to stick out on his head. Out of the candidates, Charlie’s the tallest, and it’s something he has never quite let go. “I hear you’re going to be my fairy godmother?”

Harry raises an eyebrow, amused. “Consider this an apology for stranding you here without proper warning.” He then hands Eggsy a long, flat box. There’s a bit of a weight to it, and for a second, Eggsy considers that Harry might be giving him a suit before he immediately dismisses the notion. Too nice for him, no doubt.

The lid lifts easily with a soft sound, like a sigh.

Inside is a jacket, black with a pattern of gold plaques that catch the light and shimmer, with a plain white baseball cap sitting on top. Eggsy recognizes the brand immediately, barely containing himself as his finger trails over one of the plaques, then brushes up against something cold. It’s a shimmering gold chain, draped over the whole lot, and when Eggsy hefts it in his palm, he knows from his experience hauling knock-offs that it’s likely genuine. 

“Is it?” he demands, but Harry only smiles secretively.

Still disbelieving, Eggsy lifts the clothes out one by one, placing them carefully on Harry’s desk. In addition to the jacket and cap, there’s a black polo shirt with gold stripes on the collar that match the designs on the jacket and a pair of dark, comfortable-looking jeans. All of them look his size.

“It all should fit, but if it doesn’t…” Harry begins, but Eggsy’s already slipping the jacket on over his suit.

The inside is comfortable and warm, all plush and soft, if a bit stiff because of its newness. The ridged cuffs cover his wrists, while the black hood falls gently down his back. The plaques shimmer in the light of the office, bold and bright against the black fabric, and it’s something he would have chosen for himself. 

It’s perfect. 

“Harry, this is…thank you,” Eggsy says, at loss for words.

Harry nods to the door adjacent to the desk. “Go on. See if they all fit.”

Eggsy grabs the clothes and steps into the washroom. Everything in here is so sterile and hospital-white that Eggsy lifts his boots to see if they leave any footprints before sitting on the loo’s lid and pulling his shoes off. He carefully tugs off the jacket, draping it over the sink, then, in one motion, stands up and unfastens his uniform, letting it drop onto the tiles with a soft thump, his white undershirt following soon after. 

First slipping on the jeans, the hems lazily sliding down his ankles, Eggsy then snatches up the polo and carefully maneuvers his head and arms through the openings so it wouldn’t wrinkle more than it already has. And last, of course, the jacket. Everything smells  _ new _ , and he wonders how Harry chose these clothes for him. Did he flip through a catalog? Or go to a proper store? He assumes Kingsman already knows his measurements—his ugly suit  _ does  _ fit pretty good—but the thought of  _ Harry  _ knowing the contours of his body make him want to shiver.

He imagines Harry running his fingers over the folded polo shirts and jeans, then— _ no.  _ He imagines Harry running his fingers over the polo  _ while Eggsy’s wearing it. _ He imagines Harry straightening his collar, clucking over its state, and unbuttoning it slowly. His hand would splay out on his exposed neck and collarbone…

No, he doesn’t have time for this; he really doesn’t. 

Eggsy tries to smooth his hair, mussed from training that day, even though he’ll just be putting the cap on anyway, and ends up clumsily parting it, sort of accomplishes a wave that resembles Harry’s. 

The necklace proves tricky to clasp, and the damn thing keeps snapping shut before he can insert the lock through the loop. Huffing, Eggsy ends up stuffing it in his jacket’s pocket, then turns to face the full-length mirror at the back of the door.

He looks  _ aces. _

Strutting out from the washroom, Eggsy holds his arms out from his sides and gives a mocking little twirl. “So, what do you think? Ten outta ten, am I right?”

Harry’s gaze travels from Eggsy’s jeans to his hat. He doesn’t say a word, and Eggsy can feel the steady stare, holding his pose with stretched-out arms and a wavering cocky smile. 

“I forgot the finishing touch,” Harry finally says, and lifts another box into his arms. “They are a bit atrocious, but I thought they’re to your taste.”

“Harry, you shouldn’t have,” Eggsy protests, but opens it anyway. Inside, cradled by tissue paper, are a pair of white trainers with black stripes and  _ wings,  _ spreading out from the sides like they’re ready for take-off. _ “Harry.” _

“If you dislike them…” Harry begins to say, but Eggsy shakes his head, laughing softly.

“No, this—these are perfect. Did you just buy these just because, or…?”

“I was confident that you’d make it this far.”

Eggsy mutely nods, surprised at Harry’s declaration of conviction, then sits on the bed to put on his new shoes. Like the clothes, they fit perfectly, and he twists his right foot around a few times, admiring how good they look, before standing up. “Thank you,” he repeats. 

“Your collar is a bit crooked,” Harry notes, then reaches towards him. Harry’s fingers brush lightly at the back of his neck as they adjust the collar, and Eggsy, for the moment, pretends it’s because he’s going to draw him into slide a palm at the back of his head, to pull him closer, to kiss him. He wonders if it’ll always be like this, both of them dancing on the edge of  _ something _ , not bothering to acknowledge anything. Would it be like this when he returns back to the manor?

“Your necklace?” Harry asks, and Eggsy fishes it out of his pocket. 

“The fucking clasp, bruv,” he complains, but Harry holds out his palm. 

“May I?” he asks, and mutely nodding, Eggsy turns around, feeling the hairs on his neck stand to attention. 

Fingertips ghost over the fine hairs, and Eggsy tries not to remember how gentle they were when massaging his neck, something that feels like a half-forgotten dream. With each fumble of the clasp, callouses grazing his exposed skin, Eggsy tenses, his heartbeat just a little bit faster, as tingles run up the back of his throat. 

“There,” Harry says softly, then adjusts it so it’s hanging over his collar. “Perfect.” 

“Candidates,” Merlin’s voice now says, and Eggsy jumps, looking at the speaker near Harry’s desk. “Meet outside the headquarters in five minutes. We’re heading out soon.”  

Eggsy grins, reluctantly backing away and starting for the door. “Gotta go. Wish me luck?”

Harry smiles. “You don’t need it.”


	12. Chapter 12

Being underground is _freezing_ , but after nearly being run over by a train, the cold is the least of her concerns. Her head still aches slightly from the drugs, and part of her wonders how Eggsy’s doing, how none of them but him had sensed anything was wrong with the champagne. Now that she knows, she can taste a lingering saltiness in her mouth, as well as the dust stuck stuck to her teeth.

The ropes wound around her wrists and ankles fall away, and Roxy’s quiet and still until she looks up and sees a familiar face looming over her. “What the _fuck,_ Uncle Alastair?” she hisses, getting to her feet and brushing off the dust on her dress.

“You passed the test,” Alastair replies wryly. “Congratulations.”

Roxy looks from the tracks and the rope to the end of the tunnel, where the train has stopped. Her heart rate’s slowing down from the panicked stuttering, and she’s torn between swearing for ten minutes straight and letting it go, then, sighing, allows Alastair to embrace her.

He’s wearing a thick overcoat, identical to her interrogator’s, and one of the buttons presses through the thin material of her dress against her goose-pimpled skin. “I’m so proud of you,” he whispers, and Roxy wordlessly hugs him back. For a brief second, she wonders what her parents would say if they could see her. Alastair had told them Roxy was backpacking around the world and arranged for postcards from different countries to be sent every so often, but she doesn't know if any of them had replied or simply sat there, turning the tattered note in their hands, not being able to think of anything to say to their daughter. 

Roxy had been climbing the ranks in the military when Alastair had popped by, her superiors shaking hands respectfully, staring at the papers he'd shown them in awe. He'd told her everything in hushed tones: how James was dead, how he and Alastair both were agents of an independent organization, how Roxy could do so much more than she would as the highest-ranking officer. She'd been offered an honorable discharge and warned of the long months of training, and Roxy had stared at him, trying to reconcile that her uncle's—well, she hadn't known exactly if they made it official or not—companion had died and that she was being offered a wildly impossible choice. 

Ever the type to plan and plot before every decision made, Roxy surprised herself by agreeing right away. At the time, she'd thought she was having the equivalent of a midlife crisis, but knew deep in her bones she'd do anything for the only member of her family who cared for Roxy, not Roxanne Grace Morton. 

She pulls away just in time for her interrogator—no, likely an agent—to come back, rope coiled and hanging from his shoulder, dragging a limp Eggsy by his arms. Despite figuring out that they’ve been tricked into thinking they were going to die at the hands of a madman, Roxy can’t help but ask, “He’s all right, yes?”

“The drug wears off pretty quickly,” the man reassures her. “The most dire side effect is a headache, but it goes away after drinking some fluids and having food sitting in your stomach.”

Roxy nods, hoping Merlin would have a meal ready for them when they got back. “Good acting,” she says.

“I was a RADA-trained actor before Kingsman snatched me up,” he replies. “But it makes for excellent incognito missions.” He grins at Alastair. “You handled it more calmly than your sponsor. I hear that he shouted death threats.”

Percival shrugs unapologetically. “Wouldn’t you?”

“I at least tried to bargain,” someone else comments, and everyone turns to look at Harry, who’s strolling out of the shadows, silent as a cat. He then bends down, hoisting Eggsy up into his arms.

“Oi,” the man says, still not letting go of Eggsy’s wrists.

Harry tugs, allowing Eggsy’s arms to hang limply, fingers pointing to the ground. “You have too much fun terrorizing the candidates, Kay.”

The man, Kay, opens his mouth, most likely to protest, when Merlin’s voice comes through the tunnel, as loud and clear as if he’s standing beside them: “Honestly, Galahad?"

Harry looks unruffled as he approaches the track, taking care not to jostle Eggsy. The ridiculous winged shoes dangle in the air, and the white cap’s askew, tilted in a slightly jaunty angle. Roxy watches as Harry straightens it carefully, tugging the brim down so it covers Eggsy's brow.

“You mustn’t coddle the boy, for Christ’s sake,” Merlin protests.

“It’s not coddling,” Harry says, voice lowered. “I just wanted to make sure he’s all right.”

Merlin sounds vastly irritated as he retorts, “He’s still breathing, isn’t he?”

“He’s been drugged before.”

“And you think I’d endanger the boy? Oh, ye of little faith.”

“Standard procedure is being dragged to the tracks,” Kay complains, voice so disgruntled that Alastair and Roxy eye him suspiciously.

" _My_ candidate was dragged to the tracks," Alastair stiffly notes. Behind him, Roxy furiously bites her lip as Harry ignores the protestations as he bends down over the tracks.

“Arthur’s going to—“

"The drug is going to wear off soon, so do stop arguing," Harry says irritably. “Besides, you’ll wake him.”

“We can hit him in the head,” Alastair suggests, and the look Harry throws him can freeze hell as he lays Eggsy, carefully—tenderly—down onto the tracks.

“Ropes, please,” he orders, and looking further disgruntled, Kay reluctantly hands them over.

First, Harry tugs at Eggsy’s limbs, palms facing upwards, and slips the rope around his wrists, looping them so they’re secure against the track, then repeats the process with his ankles. His fingers are deft and sure, tightening the ropes by pulling slowly on the ropes, instead of simply jerking his hands back and allowing the ropes to dig in too tightly.

She's not sure what to think about them, really. Eggsy's shared snippets, and Roxy's drawn her own conclusions, but a good part of her thinks it's not logical. If her hunch is correct, then Eggsy and Harry have broken a few of Kingsman's rules, though she hopes they were careful enough not to draw any attention to themselves. Looking at Harry now, he's holding himself as calmly as ever, but once you could _see_ it, you couldn't think it was anything quite as subtle as Harry thinks. 

Roxy watches Eggsy’s chest rise and fall, then her uncle crossing his arms, on verge of rolling his eyes, especially when Harry reaches towards Eggsy’s cap, askew again, and adjusts it.

“All right, everyone,” Merlin orders, sounding truly annoyed. “Places. Let’s scare the shit out of this boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a brief interlude, but I promise, cross my heart, the twenty-four hours will begin for real next chapter!


	13. Chapter 13

_As tradition allows, you now have twenty-four hours to spend with them._

Somewhere out there, Eggsy thinks, someone's looking out for him.

After Merlin dismisses them, Roxy and Eggsy walk side by side with their mentors to the tube, completely silent. He has no idea what to say to Harry, nor Percival—not even to Roxy. Merlin's _there are no safety nets_ makes sense; of course, there can be only one Lancelot, but he can't shut off that switch of thinking Roxy as the only friend he’s made in this place. Somewhere in the back of his brain, Eggsy had known they were competitors, but now? It’s a sobering realization to know that one of them will be leaving this manor for good soon.

It's the end of the line, now, and despite his excitement of getting to spend more time with Harry— _approved_ time—he can’t deny the nervous churn in his stomach.

Roxy glances at him, as she knows what he's thinking, but doesn't say a word.

Harry eventually breaks the silence: "Well, I'm afraid it's a bit of a ride back to London, so we'll get getting there...around four am or so, traffic permitting."

Eggsy briefly smiles, but does quick math in his head; if the twenty-four hours started now, he's likely going to fall asleep on the way there, then get enough energy to walk to wherever Harry's taking him, then crash. That's more than five hours gone. And if it's two am now, then...the end would be two am tomorrow, and more hours lost for sleep again.

"That doesn't leave us much time," Eggsy comments, trying for casual as they step into the tube. 

"Actually, it officially starts at nine AM tomorrow," Harry replies, Eggsy sitting down beside him automatically. "It's not very practical otherwise."

"Besides," Percival adds, voice reminding him like one of his old teachers, the one who seemed to have a quota of words every month, "we need the rest as well."

Roxy smiles, slipping in next to Percival, and the tube's doors slide shut. A calm, female voice tells them to put on their seatbelts, then they're off, speeding towards London.

Eggsy wonders what it would be like to be back home again. It hits him that he hasn't been back in months. How is his mum? Daisy? Did Jamal and Ryan think he gotten arrested?

And how will he explain his absence? He could say he’d gone to the slammer, yes, but if his mum has checked up on him, that story could easily fall apart, and besides, he doesn’t want to do that to her.

He thinks of one as the train hurtles forward, never stopping: a job interview. It’s a thin fiction at best, but it’s something that will give his mum hope, hope enough to really consider leaving Dean. And it’s a local one, he’ll tell her, not like the army. He can be in London, pop in on her and Daisy, maybe set them up in a nice house and a little garden and a daycare and school nearby for Daisy.

His eyes are now starting to get heavy, the adrenaline wearing off, and his stomach gives out a tiny growl, reminding him he hasn't had food since they left for the club.

Roxy's stomach growls, too, and both of them exchange a brief smile. She looks tired, too, hands going up to her face to rub an eye, then quickly drawing away so she doesn't smear her eye shadow and mascara—not to mention that her feet have to hurt something fierce with the heels.

"I can't wait to sleep," Eggsy offers.

"Me neither," she sighs. "I wish I brought make-up removal pads with me. My face is going to itch like mad if I fall asleep like this."

Eggsy looks around. Surely there has to be something here.

"There's a first aid kit underneath the seats," Percival advises. "Though I don't think there's much that can help you."

"The baby wipes," Harry suggests. "Would that work?"

"We'll see," Roxy says, then bends over to dig through the compartment, retrieving a plastic, white box. Opening it, she pulls out a package and begins wiping at her eyes, grimacing.

Eggsy yawns, head tilting back on the seat. He's just going to close his eyes for a bit, he decides, then try again at a conversation.

* * *

 He wakes up to his head on Harry's shoulder and Harry shaking him gently with a "we're here, Eggsy."

Eggsy groans, eyes still firmly closed. "Can't we crash in the shop?"

"The sofa is not terribly comfortable," Harry says, getting up. "Up, now. Percival and Roxy are waiting on us."

Forcing himself to move, Eggsy slowly stands up, swaying a bit before Harry catches him. His eyelids feel heavy, with his head heavy and longing for a pillow, but manages to steady himself, reluctantly shrugging off Harry’s hand.

There are cabs waiting for them outside, and all of them murmur goodbyes before climbing in. Eggsy thankfully sits down, as Harry tells the driver "home, please," then reminds Eggsy to put on his seatbelt. As Harry leans backwards himself, crossing his arms, Eggsy rests his head back on the soft leather, eyes half-closed. “Sorry, Harry.”

“It's quite understandable, so don't worry.” Harry says. “The drug takes some time to get flushed out of your system. You’re feeling all right otherwise?”

“Good,” Eggsy replies. If he were more awake, he'd grin, exhilarating in fact that he and Harry are finally going to be alone, but all he can do is manage another sleepy “good” before closing his eyes, giving into the remnants of the drug and the late hour.

When they pull up, the car just barely making it down the street without bumping into a house, Eggsy opens his eyes again and is greeted with the sight of a tall, white house with a balcony and large windows. "Is this yours?" he asks.

"Yes," Harry simply replies. "And don't worry, everything's set up for you." He gets out, thanking the driver, then opens the car door for Eggsy, helping him up again. Eggsy remembers walking down the steps of the police station, slowly, as if trying not to wake up from a dream, and watching a man, who had somehow sprung him and had known his father, open a cab door for him. Eggsy had stared, briefly confused but had gotten in. No one had opened a door for him before, but Eggsy wasn’t going to say no to it.  

Now, Eggsy won't lie and admit he didn't clutch Harry’s arm part of the way to the door like a bird hanging onto her date at a school dance, but he does make himself straighten up to allow Harry to get out his keys, fumbling with them before shoving one in the lock and turning. “After you,” he says. stepping backwards to allow Eggsy through first. "Would you like something to eat or drink?"

"Too tired," Eggsy sighs, and Harry nods. He still hasn't turned on the lights, but honestly, Eggsy doesn't mind, the dark comforting and easy on his tired eyes.

"Upstairs, then. You'll have to use my bathroom, but your room is across the hall from mine."

"Thanks, Harry," Eggsy mutters, following him up. He quickly glances around as he steps through it on the way to the bathroom—a big bed, a dresser, a nightstand, and some slippers on the carpet—and brushes his teeth with the green toothbrush he rips out of the packaging, then washes his face with a soft blue flannel draped over the sink’s white counter. The knobs of the faucet turn without a squeak, and the water doesn't have to be turned on for too long to heat up—and the mirror is definitely one-way.

Eggsy looks at himself in the mirror, pale and tired but happy. He can spot the shower behind him, and when he turns around, can see the ginormous tub with jets set along the sides and clawed feet. Part of him wants a nice, long, and hot bath, but another just wants to sleep—and also doesn't want to get in such a big tub alone.

When he comes out, Harry's already in his pyjamas, a proper nightshirt and trousers with pinstripes. Eggsy wonders if he's left the red robe at the manor, thinking it would be nice to see him like this more often—comfortable with sleek and silky clothing, no glasses, a fond smile on his lips and a “good night, Eggsy.”

"Good night, Harry," Eggsy returns, voice all muzzy, and wonders if he should say something else, reach out and touch Harry, but ends up shuffling along the bed

He closes the door behind him out of habit, then immediately toes off his trainers, laying his jacket over the dresser, along with his hat, and collapses into the mattress. It's unresistant, letting out a soft puff, though Eggsy has to maneuver around to pull the covers, folded down in hospital corners, over his shoulders.

He's never fallen asleep so quickly and comfortably in his life.

* * *

When he wakes up, he smells breakfast.

Eggsy doesn't bother putting on shoes or doing more than running his fingers through his head and quickly brushing his teeth. It’s like waking up to prepare for school, but remembering it’s a holiday instead. It’s an instant boost of energy, and with it, hunger. He's _ravenous_.

He heads down the stairs in last night’s clothes and bare feet, following his nose when something collides with him, nearly beginning the morning with the indignity of cracking his head open in Harry’s house. Catching himself by grabbing onto the railing, Eggsy looks down and is greeted by paws scrabbling at his jeans. 

"JB!" Eggsy exclaims, scooping him up. JB nuzzles his neck, licking his face, and Eggsy laughs, carrying him the rest of the way. He’s about to call out to Harry, then stops dead in the doorway.

Harry’s already dressed for the day in a white button-down and black tie with white polka-dots, paired with gray trousers and his usual shiny black shoes, but with something different to the ensemble: a striped apron.

Eggsy stares. He can’t believe this is Harry, standing at the stove, with its sizzling sounds and mouth-watering smell of beans and fried tomatoes and eggs and bangers and mash, in an _apron_.

And somehow, he pulls it off just fine.

“Good morning, Eggsy,” Harry says, turning around to look through the window cut into the wall, and Eggsy can see the different frying pans, the tea kettle on the stove, a random gravy boat. He has glasses perched on his nose, his hair immaculately coiffed, and Eggsy just barely manages a hello before putting down a squirming JB. The pug snuffles, making a mad dash to the kitchen, and Harry smiles, nudging him gently aside with his foot.

"He was brought over last night, but didn't want to get up,” Harry says, placing some bacon in the pan, JB wagging his behind at his feet. “Spent the whole night on the couch. Would you like some tea?”

“Er…” Eggsy says, still staring.

“Or would you prefer food? Go on, sit down.” Harry then bends down, opening the oven, as Eggsy slowly sinks into his seat, a carved wooden chair. He watches Harry carrying a silver bowl, full of perfectly round, golden rolls. "Here, to tide your over," he says. "Breakfast will be ready soon."

Eggsy takes one, staring up at Harry. It’s almost domestic, really. He can almost imagine Harry bending down to brush a kiss against his forehead, fussing over the state of his fry-up, and talking about the news or the weather or...or a mission.

Yeah.

He can almost see it: Harry running beside him, gunfire behind them; Harry kicking arse and taking names as Eggsy does the same thing; Harry kissing him and calling him Lancelot.

“...And just a few more seconds, then we can have our breakfast,” Harry’s now saying, plates clinking.

“Want any help?” Eggsy calls back.

“I got it,” Harry replies, then strides into the room, a silver platter full of plates in his hands. “Let me get the tea and orange juice...is the bread not to your liking?”

Eggsy frowns, confused, then realizes he still has the roll clutched between his fingers. “Uh, no, it’s good,” he says, although he hasn’t taken a single bite. “Just...uh, just got a bit lost in the thought. Still...sort of tired, you know?” He’s babbling now as Harry pours orange juice into one of the thin, delicate goblets on the table, then tea into the porcelain cups with gold edging. “And what’s with all this fancy stuff, Harry? The silver bird statue thing and white tablecloth…”

“I,” Harry says, “am going to teach you about meal etiquette.”

“Now?” Eggsy asks. 

“Oh, no, at dinner. This is just breakfast, and well, we’re both hungry.” Harry gestures to the dishes. “Go on, then.”

  
Eggsy does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a bit late, but...I live in America. That seems like a good enough excuse, yes?
> 
> But not to fear: this story will go on!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the slight lateness! I promise it'll be up on time next week!

After Eggsy eats his weight in food and helps Harry clear away the dishes, Harry says, “So, I have a few suggestions on what to do today, but you, of course, can offer more suggestions.” He pauses, then adds, “If you’d like to spend time with your family instead, that can be arranged as well.”

Eggsy hesitates, then asks, “Can I use your phone, then? I don’t have mine.”

“I don’t have a house phone, but here.” Harry takes a sleek black mobile and taps a few times before handing it to Eggsy, the dial pad on the screen. “You can use this.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Eggsy says, then begins punching in his mum’s number. Harry quietly retreats to the kitchen, faucet beginning to run, as Eggsy listens to the ringing, hoping she’ll pick up, hoping she and Daisy are all right, hoping he’ll soon be able to tell her there’s money coming, enough for them to move out and make a life of their own—

“Hello? Who is this?”

“Mum? Mum, it’s me, Eggsy.”

“Eggsy!” she exclaims. “Oh, love, how are you? Where have you _been_?”

“It’s a long story, but I think I found a job,” Eggsy says. It sounds pitifully vague, but he tries: “It’s a huge interview process with a lot of tests, and it’s down to me and this other bird."

“That’s wonderful, Eggsy!” She pauses, voice gone quiet. “I’ve...I have news to tell you.”

“Bad news?”

“No.” Eggsy can hear her chewing on her fingernails, though. “But...if you got a job like you said, it’ll—oh, I’ll have to call you back.”

“Is it Dean?” Eggsy asks, protective instincts rising.

“No, love, I...I’m in Wales,” she says. “And don’t worry about the charge; I got Valentine’s free SIM card. But I’m just for a few days with...with your nan. Daisy’s having a fun time here, lots of shops and beaches and whatnot, and she’s just—oh, Daisy, don’t touch that, please.”

Eggsy smiles at the thought of his sister racing around the coast, wind tangling her hair, vaguely remembering the holidays he and his parents used to take. After his dad’s death, they’d never gotten around to coming back. “That sounds good, Mum. And don’t worry, I’ll be home soon."

“I hope so,” she replies, then, “Daisy, come here, come here, please—listen, Eggsy, I’ll bring you something back, okay? I love you.”

“I love you, too, Mum.” Eggsy says, and with Daisy’s laughter in his ear, hangs up.

He walks back to Harry, holding out the phone. “Mum and Daisy are in Wales,” he says. “I don’t think they brought Dean.” Which, he thinks, is strange—Dean doesn’t like to have Michelle away for too long; even an afternoon shopping trip with her friends who hadn’t been scared off by Dean or with Daisy has him impatiently checking his mobile for updates. If it wasn’t Dean, Eggsy would think it sweet, if cloying, but since it’s Dean, he knows it’s not.

“Do you want to join them?” Harry asks, slipping the phone back into his trouser pocket. Everything in the sink, Eggsy sees, is in the dishwasher.

Eggsy shakes his head. “They’re having fun without me, and besides—” he allows himself a grin. “I’ll have a surprise for them soon, yeah?”

Harry doesn’t react, but instead asks, “How do you feel about the British Museum? We can make a day out of it and walk around afterwards. But if you don’t like museums—”

“I love museums,” Eggsy says immediately.

* * *

He hasn’t been to one since he was in the lower grades, and that had been an art museum to listlessly instill “culture” into a large group of squirming kids who wanted to run around on a warm spring afternoon, but this museum is _aces._

Every exhibit has so many rooms crammed full of information and artifacts, and Eggsy bets that even if they were here until closing, they wouldn’t finish it all. There are a lot of people here, but not so much that the halls are too loud; there’s a hushed, awed atmosphere, with occasional murmurs of “ooh, look at this” and “no, don’t touch that.” People don’t stare at Eggsy in his jeans and black Adidas jacket with gold stripes down the arm, nor do they push or tell him to get out of the way so they can get a little more closer to a certain display. Everything he’s seeing so far is pretty cool.

But the best part is Harry, guiding Eggsy through without glancing at the map and adding information not included on the placards. He’s quietly enthusiastic, so much so that Eggsy asks, “You’re a history buff, then?”

“I am,” Harry replies.

“How come?”

Harry nods towards a portrait of a dark-haired woman, a golden _B_ dangling at her throat. "History is always made up out of ripples. Imagine if King Henry never fell off his horse. Anne Boleyn might not have miscarried out of shock. She might have borne him a son, a son that...well, what would he have become? Her ambitions would have come true, and the lives of four women spared."

He’s silent, now, and Eggsy thinks of his father, who’d reached this point and nothing much more. It’s obvious Harry’s not quite thinking about past kings and queens, but about the people he’s lost in as a Kingsman, mentally beating himself up about it in the seconds it takes to move onto the next panting.

“You never know,” Eggsy says, voice quiet. “What if the son had died years later? What if Henry grew tired of Anne, like he did with Catherine? So many things could have happened. Besides,” he adds, “isn’t that the main lesson of time-travelling shows and myths and shit? The danger of messing with an inevitable event?”

Harry turns to look at him, but Eggsy can’t tell what the other man’s thinking, his voice perfectly flat as he replies, “And this leads us to the Greeks.”

But Eggsy keeps thinking. What if the Library of Alexandria hadn’t been burned down? What if the Mongols or Rome or other empires hadn’t collapsed for a few more years? What if this or that powerful country hadn’t started or marched into wars?

What if he hadn’t used the medal? What if his mum never met Dean? What if his father had never been recruited?

He looks at Harry, who’s intently studying a stone lion statue with a human head, and wonders.

* * *

Eventually, they decide to break for a late lunch. The cafe Harry chooses is in the courtyard underneath a glass ceiling, and a man with a black tie announces, “Welcome to the Great Court Restaurant,” before sitting them near a large replica of the Acropolis. Besides that, it’s weirdly futuristic—all white ceilings and floors, save for two small, potted trees over the wall. There’s a open kitchen where Eggsy can see chefs preparing food with sizzling and flames and clashes of metal, and Eggsy’s stomach grumbles, his head turning to gawk at various, tempting dishes being plated.

The entire menu, in Eggsy’s opinion, is definitely overpriced, but he finds himself sitting down at one of the tables while Harry rattles off an order for the afternoon tea selection and a pot of cream tea, as Eggsy looks at the selections, with a chicken-pistachio-apricot terrine and a salad with Nicoise and crab rosti and other ingredients that seem ridiculously pretentious, like baby kale pesto and Chalk Stream Farm smoked trout and aubergine- chocolate tortes. And that’s not including the wine menu or the sides that charge four pounds for bread and butter.

Harry notices him looking and says, “You can order whatever you like.”

“No, I’m all right,” Eggsy replies, handing the waiter his menu. “Thanks.”

He’s conscious of the crowds around him, coming in for tea, but Harry doesn’t seem to notice, steering the conversation to the different exhibits. There’s no more talk of ripples or what-ifs; instead, Harry tells him different museums he has visited and smiles fondly when Eggsy mentions the one he’s been to and what he knows from the telly and _How to Steal a Million._ “Should’ve brought a boomerang, yeah?” he jokes.

“Oh, it would be quite different today,” Harry says, as their waiter comes back, setting down the pot of tea, then two scones, clotted cream, and strawberry preserves. Eggsy takes one, slathering his with the sweet things offered, and bites, getting sticky fruit and cream all over his mouth, noting, a bit jealously, that Harry manages his first bite nearly spotlessly, delicately dabbing at stray flecks with a napkin.

For a moment, Eggsy imagines leaning over and kissing the slight mess off of Harry’s lips, but remembers the last time he’d tried to do something like that and stops himself, trying to keep up with the conversation about the Louvre.

Later, they devour a variety of red pepper and goat cheese tarts, Irish beef pastrami and brioches, cured salmon and dill cream cheese bagels, and egg  and mustard cress sandwiches, managing to split an aubergine-chocolate torte with raspberry crème fraiche, the last item ordered after Eggsy expressed his confusion and mild disgust. Eggsy recalls the meals they’ve shared, the one when he was sick and the other after Charlie had nicked his stuff—Charlie, out of the running for good—and tries not to sigh. Oh, they get along, but since that last meal, where Eggsy had confronted Harry about his avoidance techniques, there’s been that uncertain feeling, that bridge not yet crossed. There's still a lot coming between them: their age, their class, and their uncertainty of Eggsy actually becoming a Kingsman. Perhaps Harry's realized it and decided to back out. 

But there's the memory of Harry's gaze on him when he'd walked out wearing his new clothes, the fingers fastening the necklace clasp, the confidence in him passing the test. And back and back and back, to Harry's gifts and smiles and touches that had faded out under surveillance and as the possibility of taking the Lancelot position came closer. 

He realizes this: Harry’s holding himself back.

And Eggsy, picking up his fork, wonders how he could make Harry lose control.


	15. Chapter 15

They walk around the museum some more after their meal, but to be honest, Eggsy's not paying much attention to the exhibits any more. He's looking at Harry, Harry who's striding forward so calmly, and thinks. Harry's not going to do anything in a public place, not when there's a possibility of surveillance. They'll need somewhere private, not as obvious as the cabin in the woods, but some place more comfortable—Harry's turf. 

"JB's going to need a walk," he finally says. "Is there a park near your house?" 

"There is," Harry replies.  

"Then let's go before he pisses on your floor." Eggsy can sense Harry mentally wincing at his crassness, but Harry still follows him out the door, dropping a few quid into the donations box. It’s still light out, though Eggsy takes a quick glance at Harry’s watch—16:15, half of their twenty-four hours gone. If he wants to change the mood, he better come up with something real quick—but, as NLP training mentioned, has to seem like it’s the  _other_  person’s idea.

 _Consider this another test,_  Eggsy thinks, just as he steps into the waiting cab. He knows subtlety is not his strong suit, and Harry’s a trained spy, so his odds are not very high to begin with. But all Harry has to do is meet him halfway, and they can interact how they used to, maybe even talk this out. 

When they get to Harry's house, Eggsy leashes up JB and coaxes Harry to come with him, saying he doesn't know his way around. Harry obligingly agrees, guiding Eggsy and JB through the trails, past the people jogging and teenagers snogging on the grass. Eggsy keeps the conversation light, chattering about the weather and the different tricks JB’s learning and his nan in Wales, and Harry nods and asks questions, even laughing at JB trying to chase a squirrel up a tree.  

Spotting an ice cream stand, Eggsy looks longingly at it—it’s been a while—and Harry offers to pay, getting them both something. Eggsy chooses strawberry—“it’s got fruit in it, so it’s sort of healthy, yeah?”—while Harry gets chocolate that’s more brownie chunks than ice cream. JB dances around them, jumping up occasionally in fruitless attempts, and Eggsy smiles when Harry gets ice cream down his chin and daintily dabs at it with a handkerchief—because of  _course_ Harry has one.

He won’t admit the reason for anything, but he  _does_ bite the end of the cone to suck out the melting ice cream, hollowing his cheeks and making a point of licking his lips afterwards.

As soon as they step back into the house, Harry removes his jacket and puts it on a nearby peg, while Eggsy swallows at the gun holsters, strapped like suspenders across his broad chest and shoulders. He imagines grabbing them, using them to tug Harry closer for a kiss— 

"Well, we have enough time to prepare dinner," Harry comments, walking towards the kitchen. Eggsy hears the refrigerator open, then beeping from the oven, along with foil crinkling. JB’s claws click against the tiles, and Eggsy can smell oil and herbs and vegs, something he remembers from when his mum went out of her way to cook. He’d bet money on it being some kind of roast.  

“Now?” Eggsy asks. “I'm still a bit full from the café, to be honest. And the ice cream,” he adds.

“It'll take a while to cook, so don't worry.” Harry pauses, so Eggsy can hear the clattering of the metal rack and the slam of the oven door. “There are some DVDs near the telly.”

"Well, I've haven't seen _Pretty Woman_ ," Eggsy reminds him, pulling the DVD off its shelf and waving it at him. “Want to watch with me?”

There's a hesitation in Harry's eyes when he looks towards the couch, the only seat in the living room, but Eggsy waits.  _Come on,_ he thinks.

“All right,” Harry says, then crosses the room. He kneels beside Eggsy, taking the DVD from him and putting it in the player, pressing a few buttons before retreating to the couch. 

Harry starts to fully relax by the time Vivian is in chin-high bubbles in the tub. He leans back against the couch, arm stretched and curving behind Eggsy’s shoulder. Eggsy likes the plot well enough, especially when Vivian gets to have a smug encounter with the snobby shop assistant, and definitely eyes up the actor playing Edward, with a sophisticated tint of grey in his hair and a suit—not as tailored as Harry’s, but good-looking enough to flatter his assets.

“Don’t think prostitution’s this glamorous, though,” Eggsy notes.

“Before this was turned into a rather optimistic romance, Edward was supposed to throw Vivian out of the car and drive off at the end.”

“I’m guessing that doesn’t happen?”

“Quite the opposite,” Harry reassures him. “Keep watching.”

Eggsy notices that he’s closer now, their knees almost touching, but doesn’t dare to move. Instead, he allows Harry to shift more, relaxing, and stays as still as he can when Harry finally leans into him, smelling like posh cologne. It’s warm in the house from the oven and the central heating, JB curled lazily on the carpet at his feet. He thinks about calling JB up beside him, but knows that some people don’t like dogs on their furniture, so refrains. 

Harry pats a hand on the couch. “Up,” he commands, and JB jumps, Eggsy helping him along as the pug’s short legs nearly cause him to nearly miss the couch.

“Harry?”

“You look like you wanted company, as did JB.” Harry rubs the pug’s ears, and Eggsy smiles fondly at both of them, only to frown once Edward begins, “I’ll get you an apartment, buy you a car,” outlining a better life he could buy for Vivian.

Eggsy sighs audibly, folding his arms across his chest.  

“What is it?” Harry asks, turning his head. 

“Come off it, bruv,” Eggsy replies. “He was just getting somewhere, and he had to say  _that_.” Eggsy gestures to the screen, where Vivian begins her retelling her fantasy about a knight on a white horse. “Sure, she needs help and wants him, but not like…some charity case, not shut up in a nice house with fancy clothes. Just…” he stops. He’s clearly projecting.

“What?” Harry asks again, and damn him for choosing to be interested now.

Eggsy shrugs, trying to seem nonchalant. “He’s just not that sensitive, you know,” he says, just as Edward protests, “But I've never treated you like a whore,” and Vivian retorts, “You just did.”

What Harry did for him is different, Eggsy thinks, as Edward and his wanker of a colleague sit in the meeting room. Harry didn’t buy a mansion; he just opened a door. That’s respect, Eggsy knows. Harry believed in his capabilities enough to give him a chance to prove himself. He didn’t take the easy route, and neither does Eggsy.

He smiles privately to himself, turning his attention back to the movie. 

The ending turns out to be pretty cheesy, with Edward in a white limo, stereo with a romantic tune playing on full blast, a bouquet of roses clenched between his teeth. But, Eggsy admits, it’s not bad all around, the sort of shit he would watch with his mum when Dean was out of the house. And really, who could blame him for indulging in a fantasy once in a while?

“So what happens after he climbs up the tower and rescues her?” Edward’s asking.

“She rescues him right back,” Vivian replies, and they kiss.

Eggsy can’t look at Harry, conscious of the man beside him, barely focusing on the screen himself. He doesn’t even dare to think too much, for fear of Harry suddenly gaining telepathy and causing this comfortable atmosphere to end.  

Luckily, the kiss is mercifully short, and Eggsy tries not to breathe a sigh of relief as Vivian and Edward drive off and the credits begin to roll. “Another?” he asks, just as the oven timer rings. 

He mentally curses when Harry rises. “Time for dinner, then,” he says. “And I did promise you an etiquette lesson.”

* * *

 

“So, outside in,” Harry instructs, gesturing to the forks. “Salad course, main event. And here's an oyster fork, though we aren't using it tonight. Remember that the knives' edges face the plate, on the same side as the spoon and said oyster fork, the right side. Left are the forks, as you can see, three of them."

Eggsy tries not to yawn. He’s pretty hungry, and dinner smells delicious—even though it’s likely cooling right on the table—but Eggsy knows enough to not start eating until the host does.  

“And if you can’t figure out the forks…”

“Count the prongs,” Eggsy drawls.

Harry smiles. “Precisely.” Then, “You look bored, Eggsy.”  

“No,” Eggsy says quickly. “This…this is just…new.”

For a long moment, Harry looks at him with that same, observant gaze that makes Eggsy feel stripped to the skin—the same one that knows cold, hard bullshit. “You didn’t put your napkin on your lap,” he finally says.

“Oh.” Eggsy stares at the neatly folded napkin resting on the table, thoroughly puzzled at the non sequitur. “Uh, sorry.”

“Because if you have a napkin on your lap,” Harry says, “it’s a simple way to disguise…weaponry.”

And with that, he lifts the napkin resting on his own lap and pulls out a gun, pointing it at Eggsy.  
  
“Whoa!” Eggsy shouts, raising his hands.

“You can hide two firearms, four knives, or various other small tools of the trade,” Harry continues calmly, then nods at one of the silver trays on the table. “Those are perfectly useful shields as well, can even deflect a few daggers if made correctly. And as for forks…” He then nods at the one closest to his plate. “The dinner fork is sturdy and can inflict damage on certain extremities, while the oyster fork—the tiny one over there—can be jabbed into a shoulder or a wrist. And you’d be surprised with what you can do with a fondue fork.” Harry’s eyes are mischievous. “How about I show you how to survive a dinner party?” 

Eggsy grins. 

* * *

"I've never had martinis before," Eggsy says, about an hour and a half later. Harry's hands are on his, stirring the second drink, as _Trading Places_ plays in the background. JB's snoring on the couch, and Eggsy's sweater is tossed on one of the chairs, while his hat has been abandoned upstairs in the office with all the newspaper headlines. He's feeling light and happy, even though he's only had just had one drink. It's the endorphins, he thinks. High on happiness and all that. 

He laughs, out loud this time.

"Is there something funny?" Harry asks, sipping his own drink. 

"No reason," Eggsy replies quickly. "Just...well...the movie is pretty funny, yeah?" He points to everyone at the fancy party dancing wildly to disco music. 

"It is," Harry says, just as one of the women begin to strip, right in the middle of the dance floor. "Though not terribly realistic, of course." 

"Like _Pretty Woman_ was?" Eggsy retorts. 

"Fair point. But I must admit that no self-respecting gentleman or lady would be that enthusiastic about disco."

Eggsy raises an eyebrow. "Oh? Then what would a gently-bred noble be enthusiastic about?" 

Muting the telly, Harry then switches on the radio, fiddling with dial. "This," he says, as energetic bursts of saxophones blast from the speakers. 

"Jazz?" Eggsy asks, about to make a snarky comment, but goes, "Oh, I definitely know this one."

"You’re familiar with Glen Miller?" 

“Nah, this was on _Doctor Who_.” Eggsy says, before standing up, abandoning his drink as he crosses into the living room, spinning on his heels and clicking his fingers. He's pretty sure that seventy-percent of this is the alcohol, but this song is also as catchy as hell, and he won't say no to showing off a few moves of his own. It's mostly just stepping back and forth, bouncing on the balls of his feet, but adding a bit of swing to his arms makes it feel like he can dance. 

Truth be told, he must look ridiculous, but he's having too much fun to care. His shoulders sway to the beat, along with his hips, and keeps on spinning, managing a few light kicks, grinning broadly. "I can dance! I can dance!" 

Suddenly, Harry takes his hands, and before Eggsy can startle, gracefully sweeps him across the floor. JB's sitting on his haunches, watching them rotate around the room, their feet moving in a sweeping box step. Eggsy laughs again, cheeks beginning to ache from all the grinning, but he doesn't care, even when Harry's counting the beat out loud, skillfully maneuvering them 'round the furniture. The house seems brighter, warmer—

And the music changes to something sweet and soft. 

"Moonlight Serenade," Harry whispers against his ear. 

They don't dance, not really, but just sort of sway back and forth. Eggsy can feel Harry's calloused palm, the other hand resting on his hip, the breath on his neck. He allows Harry to turn him, gently and slowly, feet moving carefully in order not to trip, and looks up, up into Harry's face, quiet smile playing on his lips. 

"It's late," Harry says, when the song ends, but doesn't let go. "Perhaps you'd like to retire? Shower, as well?"

“That sounds like a good idea; think I might still smell like the Underground," Eggsy jokes. "Do you want to go first, or..." 

"I'll be in the office," Harry interjects, still not moving. "There's just a few things I need to review before settling down myself."

When they finally part, it's like some dream—him stumbling upstairs, into Harry's bath, and pulling his clothes off, onto the floor allowing steam to fill the room and then hot droplets to hit his body. His head feels swimmy, but he manages to scrub with Harry's lathering soap and not slip in the porcelain smooth tub. But all he can think about is Harry, Harry's hands on his body, Harry smiling at him, Harry not wanting to pull away...

When he finishes showering, he wraps a towel around his waist and heads towards the sink. Harry's laid out pyjamas for him, the grey bottoms and white t-shirt he had the first night as a Kingsman initiate. There's a toothbrush and a small container of floss on the sink, as well as a washcloth. 

But on the door, hanging by a hook, is a familiar red robe. 

Eggsy takes a deep breath for courage, then steps out of the bathroom, heading towards the office, the robe's belt swinging loosely from around his waist. “Ready to hit the hay?” he calls out, parking himself right in the threshold.

“Yes, but no need to wait up. I just need to finish this and get ready for bed.”

At first, Harry doesn't seem to notice him, but when he finally looks up from his computer, his eyes widen when they take Eggsy in, leaning against the door frame in nothing but the plush fabric beginning to unravel from his body. 

"Eggsy," Harry starts to say, but doesn't get to finish. 

Because that’s when Eggsy decides to drop the robe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is sliiiiightly late, but we're getting so, so close to the...climax. (or one of them)
> 
> This last scene is definitely inspired by the elevator scene in _Selfie_.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Er, I'm sorry I'm late again. But hopefully...this makes you forgive me?

The fabric pools on the floor, and Eggsy thinks that he's lucky that Harry's central heating is pretty good because he's still as warm—and as bare-arsed—as he was in the steamy space of the shower. 

Eggsy can feel the creak of the wooden floorboards beneath his bare feet, along with the thick cotton tickling his heels. He forces himself to raise his chin, to look Harry in the eyes, and to not focus on his own bare skin, still speckled with droplets that are beginning to roll down his limbs and back and chest and trickle onto the floor.

Harry's gaze is undeniably hungry, _wanting_ , but all too soon, quickly changes to something cool and distant. “Put some clothes on,” he orders. 

Eggsy doesn't say or do anything. He simply stands there, waiting. 

“Eggsy.” Harry swallows. “This is highly—“

“We're both consenting adults.”

“I'm your mentor.”

“So?” Eggsy says. “It's not like you're my actual teacher at school or anything.”

“It says in the handbook—“ 

“Do people always follow the handbook?" Eggsy tilts his head. "No. We're in your house, off the grounds, and unless you're into some weird shit with Merlin, I don't think there are any of his cameras here." 

"All the same..." Harry shakes his head. "I can't." 

"Can't or won't?" 

Harry wavers. “This…relationship has to be strictly professional,” he says firmly. “I can’t touch you. Not until you become Lancelot.”

"All right, then," Eggsy says, getting an idea. "If you can't touch me, then..." 

Turning on his heel as if to leave, Eggsy pauses, right in the doorway. “I guess I’ll have to take care of it myself.”

He's never done this with an audience. Even before his stepfather, the Marines, and the Kingsman dormitory, Eggsy’s always gone behind a carefully-locked door, muffling noises to the best of his ability, whether with a hand, tightly-pressed lips, or a pillow. It was, after all, the polite way—the gentleman’s way.

But Eggsy is no gentleman.

He lifts both hands and begins to run them over his body. “You know, Harry,” he says. “When my mates and I got pissed one night, we thought it might be fun if we got piercings.” His fingers trail up, up towards his chest, thumb deliberately brushing against a nipple. “Of course, the guy didn’t want to stick a needle into two blokes who knocked over his display and kept babbling about Plan B, but I had an idea of what I wanted.” He closes his thumb and index finger around it and tugs, callouses scraping against a hardening peak. “Barbells, I think. Or a ring. Silver.”

He lets Harry imagine that, just as his hand slides across his chest to toy with the opposite nipple, a brief flick and pinch. “Of course, I didn’t get them,” Eggsy says, voice steady and calm, though part of him wants to let out the breath he’s been holding since he dropped the robe. His fingers tug again, cock twitching in response. “But I thought about other things. Like a tattoo here—” He runs a hand slowly down his forearm. “Or maybe on the other arm, I don’t know.” Repeating the motion, he allows his eyes to flicker briefly towards Harry, silent and still in his seat, knees parted.

Slowly, Eggsy lets his fingers trail down towards his stomach, moving across the muscles that have formed over these past few months. _It could be you,_ he thinks, looking at Harry again as he moves his hands down his body, over the places he’d love for Harry to touch—his sides, his hips, his thighs—even giving himself a cheeky squeeze of his arse with both hands _. It could be you doing this._

When he lifts his hands, they comes away wet from the droplets still clinging to his skin.

And the whole time, Harry sits in his chair, frozen and unmoving. 

Eggsy looks at him. “Do you want me to stop?” he asks. He may be drunk, inhibitions taking a holiday, but if Harry’s uncomfortable with this, he’ll apologize and head straight to bed before this can escalate.

Mutely, Harry shakes his head, hands moving to close around the arms of the chair. He’s not going to beg, Eggsy knows. He’s too proud for that.

But what he’s not too proud to do is cover the bulge in his trousers.

Eggsy lets his gaze rest on it for a few long minutes, then slowly, calculatingly places his palm on his inner thigh, the skin soft and smooth underneath his surprisingly steady hand. There’s no lube in the room, nothing to tease Harry with the possibility of sliding his cock between his legs, but there’s always the old-fashioned way.

Harry’s grip is white-knuckled when Eggsy’s fingers wrap around his own cock.

It’s patient, drawn-out, Harry clenching tighter and tighter on the armrests as Eggsy thumbs at the head of his cock, smearing precome along the slit. He wants to walk over to the desk, hike up his legs, and show Harry a bit more, but Eggsy stays, rocking slightly in place as his fist moves up and down, thumb rubbing in slow-moving circles on the head. His fingers are getting sticky and slick, more so when he gives himself a gentle squeeze, sliding his fist along with the precome gathering quickly under his hand.

Harry hasn’t moved to open his trousers or to touch himself, but his eyes are considerably wider behind his glasses. Eggsy wonders if he’s trying to memorize this, the sound of skin on skin, Eggsy’s progressively quicker breaths, the body laid out vulnerable just for him.

He moves to spit on his palm, making more of a mess, but it makes things go a bit smoother. Dimly, he recalls having a shower, the irony of getting clean just to get dirty again, but he can’t be arsed to care, not when Harry’s looking at him, intense and immobile. He remembers Harry, standing on the steps of the police station in his tailored suit and umbrella perched at his hip; Harry, quick and agile and deadly in the pub against Dean’s goons; Harry, watching him in the shower; Harry, moving his hands to massage the length of Eggsy’s body; Harry, looking at him _now,_ lips parting in a moan—

He could curse when he loses control, hands moving to try to catch the come dripping towards the shiny hardwood floor, sliding down his skin. His legs feel quivery, palms cupping what he can, and when he raises his gaze, he can see Harry watching come slip though his fingers.

“I can clean that up,” Eggsy says, and licks the length of his palm, lips closing around each finger, sucking as if catching melted ice cream on a hot summer day. Harry, this time, groans audibly.

He doesn’t fancy cleaning up the rest that’s gotten on the floor with his tongue, so he gestures to Harry. “D’ you have a handkerchief by any chance? Towel? Napkin?”

“I got it,” Harry says, voice croaking, then slides off the leather chair, down on his knees, to open a drawer, pulling out a fresh cloth, edges crisply folded. Red silk mops against the floor, Harry steadfastly looking at the floor, gathering every trace he can find, while Eggsy stands over him, his head a mixture of swimmy from the martinis and clear-headed from the shower.

When Harry rises, he drops the handkerchief into the bin beside the desk, just as Eggsy steps closer. Harry turns to face him, then Eggsy stiffens when he feels something touching his bare skin.

Harry stares at his hand on Eggsy's chest, like he's not certain how it got there. 

“Go on, then,” Eggsy says softly. He’s sure Harry can feel the frantic beat of his heart.

Harry cups Eggsy’s face with both hands and kisses him.

Harry had shown him how to swirl the drink in his hand, to sip and savor, to try to identify all the different flavors. _Dry,_ Eggsy had said. _Bitter. And salty._

Harry’s mouth tastes like that—dry from the martini itself, bitter from the gin, salty from the olives. Eggsy lets his lips part, tasting, and Harry’s hands press just a bit more into his skin, mouth covering his, almost tenderly. Eggsy’s hands close around Harry’s broad shoulders, bunching up the fabric, feeling what’s underneath, and Harry comes closer, closer against Eggsy’s naked body, glasses almost uncomfortably pressing into Eggsy’s skin, but Eggsy won’t separate for anything.

His blood is pumping, rushing all over his body, hairs standing up on his arms. This is happening. This is _really_ happening. 

Almost too soon, they part, Eggsy’s hands dropping limply to his sides, Harry’s still cupped around Eggsy’s face.

“Not until you get Lancelot,” Harry says, voice husky. “Promise me.”  

“Yes,” Eggsy says. “But maybe just one more?”

And Eggsy’s arms come up again and wind around Harry’s neck, as Harry’s arms loop around his waist, almost lifting him off his feet, and they kiss again in the office, surrounded by the newspapers and balcony with the closed curtains and the possibility now stronger than ever.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem to be apologizing for these chapters being up on Saturday instead of Friday lately. I just have one more week of school/finals, then these updates will likely come in a more timely manner! Thanks for coming this far with me!

Andrew's been working for Kingsman for years. He's not an agent himself, of course, just an ordinary head tailor who’s been lucky enough to know the secrets behind the shop. He used to be young enough to quite possibly fend off an intruder until an agent arrived, but now doubts he can accomplish that, unless it’s some fumbling civilian robber.

For now, he prides himself for being one of the oldest tailors in Kingsman. His fingers can’t always take stitching by hand for hours at a time, but there are sewing machines and fellow tailors ready to lend a hand. As much as he enjoys making a suit, it’s showing the customer through the different patterns and fabrics and cuts, politely guiding them away from an unflattering choice they insist on making, and seeing the finished product—how it flatters, how it makes that person stand just a little taller.

 _Finding the right suit is like falling in love,_ his boss had told him when he was merely an apprentice. _You can’t help but look your best._

Hardly a customer leaves unsatisfied, and Andrew allows himself a small breath of satisfaction as he takes in the shop. Mr. Valentine had arrived without so much as a phone call ahead, but luckily, none of the fitting rooms were occupied, so they were able to accommodate him and the woman he’d arrived with. The boys had swept and dusted, so everything looks neat and tidy, and all Andrew has to wait for is Galahad, who’s late, as per usual.

Galahad, after another fifteen minutes, comes in, and at his heels is the recruit Andrew's been hearing whispers of through the gossip mill. He's dressed in...well, Andrew doesn't know quite how to describe them, and if he could, would raise an eyebrow at Galahad for picking such an outfit. 

He's under the impression that Galahad likes his candidate, after all. 

Of course, Galahad starts lecturing about bespoke suits, briefly running his fingers across a sample of wool. The boy’s eyes flicker towards the hand, then quickly glance up when Galahad meets his gaze. Briefing smiling, Galahad continues, “Now, let’s get you measured, and whether you get the job or not, you’ll have a lasting and…useful memento of your time at Kingsman.”

Part of Andrew’s job is to read people—how nervous they are when they first step into a fitting room, how they react to a certain design in the sketchbook, how they hold their body while walking and sitting down—and he sees many things. For one, Galahad is wearing his favorite suit—grey with delicate pinstripes, paired with a black tie with white polka-dots—and his gaze never quite leaves his candidate. Andrew remembers Galahad commissioning a suit for Lee as a pre-emptive congratulatory present, which had been scrapped after his untimely death, but the two men, although friendly, hadn’t been as relaxed and loose as these two. Andrew knows the twenty-four hours are gone, yet Galahad’s still around and not taking his candidate to the mansion—instead, purchasing him a suit with his own money, something he’s sure Chester would never approve of.

And lastly, there had been a flash something in the boy—Eggsy’s—eyes when Galahad mentioned _measuring_. It’s quickly extinguished when Andrew lifts his head to see which fitting room Galahad will choose, but it had been there, most certainly.

“I'm so sorry, sir, but a gentleman is completing his fitting there. Fitting room two is available.” 

“One does not use fitting room two when one is popping one's cherry,” Galahad proclaims, and Eggsy’s grin is bright and quick, spreading across his face. Eggsy glances his way, as if to see if he had heard that, but Andrew is quite used to Galahad’s bold innuendos. He notices the way Galahad’s standing—one hip cocked ever so slightly forward, hand in his trouser pocket, preening. “Perhaps I'll show you fitting room _three_ instead.”

Andrew, this time, allows himself to raise his eyebrows. 

He wordlessly nods, as a good and unobtrusive gentleman should, but can’t help cataloging the way Eggsy follows, starry-eyed and eager. He hears a soft creak, and when he turns his head, sees Galahad usher Eggsy first, then firmly close the door behind them.

Andrew goes back to his accounting. If he wishes, he can look into the security feeds—a feature in every Kingsman dressing room, just in case of robbery or the typical scuffle agents get into—but figures that the two deserve a little privacy.

He’ll never gossip, of course, but imagines the reaction if this incident got out in certain circles—though he’s fairly certain a good many people have already drawn similar conclusions.

“Ah, perfect time,” Andrew says, just as they step out some time later. Eggsy’s cap is slightly askew, cheeks flushed a bit, while Galahad looks entirely too smug. “The gentleman’s just finished.”

“Mr. Devere!” Mr. Valentine crows, holding out his arms, and Andrew sees Galahad’s expression slip into something perfectly unreadable. He prepares himself to address Galahad by his alias if need be, then looks at Eggsy, who’s also gone completely still. “What a coincidence! You are totally the reason I'm here. When you left my house, I was thirsting for that dope-ass smoking jacket you had on. And since I'm going to Royal Ascot, and apparently, you need one of these penguin suits...here I am.”

Every word is cheerful and complimentary, but Andrew can read in between the lines: _I’m here, and I know you’re here, too._

Mr. Valentine’s attention suddenly shifts to Eggsy, whose expression isn’t quite hiding his apprehension as well as Galahad’s. “What are you doing here? What's up, man?” He reaches out, and Eggsy takes his hand, shaking it once. “Richmond Valentine.”

Before Eggsy can introduce himself, Galahad steps in: “This is my valet.” His voice is the perfect mix of bored and perfunctory, though Andrew notes the way he moves his shoulder so it blocks Eggsy just a little. “I was just introducing him to my tailor.”

“Another coincidence,” Mr. Valentine notes. “So am I.” He gestures to his companion, who steps forward to join Valentine, gaze intent on Galahad. Eggsy notices, pinning her with an equally hard stare.

Galahad doesn’t seem to notice. “Have you had any chance to think further on my proposal?”

“Most definitely. My people will be getting in touch with you _very_ soon.” The threat is implicit. “I guarantee it.”

Andrew’s just wondering why Galahad would be investigating Mr. Valentine when Galahad recommends Lock and Co. Hatters, and Andrew quickly slips his fingers underneath the desk to press a button that will alert Lock and Co. about a potential customer in need of a specialized hat. Galahad’s glasses are likely recording, ready to send the shop a physical description of the pair.

“Lox, as in smoked fish?”

“As in _locked up_ ,” Harry replies, with a tight smile. Andrew inwardly sighs. Galahad’s never been too good with subtleties.

Mr. Valentine obviously notices. “Ah. I have trouble understanding you people sometimes. Y’all…talk so funny.” He smiles patronizingly, turning to walk out the door. His companion gives Eggsy a once-over, which Eggsy returns with undisguised wariness, then follows Mr. Valentine out the door.

Galahad now straightens up, turning to Andrew and the tailor still lingering at the edge of the fitting room. "Gentlemen, would you look after him, please?" 

“Harry,” Eggsy begins, then stops.

Galahad briefly lays one hand on Eggsy’s shoulder and squeezes. “Andrew will help you with what you need.”

To anyone else, it would seem innocuous, casually brushing aside the danger, but Andrew sees Galahad’s intention: _don’t worry about me._

Eggsy only watches as Galahad leaves the shop, stepping into a Kingsman cab, and only allows himself to be guided into a fitting room once the vehicle rounds the corner.

* * *

 Andrew gives Eggsy a sympathetic smile when he steps out, pulling his jacket closer to his body. "Now, would sir like to choose a pattern for his suit?"

“I don’t…I'm not really an expert in this,” Eggsy admits. He’s somewhat defiant, raising his chin as if preparing for a fight, but Andrew only says, “Well, we can start with colors. What do you like?” He gestures towards the bolts of fabric on the tables. “Feel free to touch. A suit must always be comfortable.”

Eggsy nods, but only gives the displays a cursory glance before making his choice. “I like this one,” he says firmly, pointing to the navy blue one with silver pinstripes.

“Like Galahad’s?” It’s the only time he’d dare pose such a bold question.

Eggsy doesn’t take the bait, but he does nod firmly. “Yeah.”

“Would you like the same cut as well?”

Eggsy nods again.

“And the tie?” Andrew asks, then leads him to another part of the shop. “There’s cufflinks, too, as well as handkerchiefs and other such accessories. Any color, any pattern.”

Eggsy wrinkles his nose. “I…how much did H—Galahad say I could spend?”

“He didn’t give me a number, sir.”

“But…how…” Eggsy hesitates before asking, “how much is a suit?”

“A bespoke can go for a little more than two thousand pounds, depending on pattern, style, additions, whenever the customer needs it by…”

“Two _thousand_?” Eggsy’s eyes go wide. “I can’t…I can’t take advantage of his generosity. Maybe I should just…”

“Galahad wouldn’t have set up an appointment if he didn’t know what he was getting himself into,” Andrew reassures. “Trust me, he’d be more disappointed if you didn’t accept his generosity—though, of course, you’re free to object.”

Eggsy fidgets, looking around the shop. “Not to be ungrateful or anything, but…I didn’t realize…” He’s obviously mentally tallying different figures, eyes growing wider and wider. “It’s just a bit much, yeah?” he finishes, voice too casual to be read as such.

“Galahad doesn’t seem to mind.”

“Of course _Galahad_ doesn’t,” Eggsy mutters. He looks as if he has choice words for Galahad, too, and Andrew tries his best not to smile.

“Might I suggest merely looking through what we have to offer for now? And if you do decide to get a suit, we do have your measurements ready.”

“All right,” Eggsy says, mollified.

“Very good, sir,” Andrew replies, then hears a quick, sharp ring.

“Excuse me,” he says, then moves to pick up the phone. “Hello, this is Kingsman Tailors, Mr. Bridgmont speaking. How may I assist you?”

“Andrew,” Merlin says, “Galahad has informed me that Eggsy is in the shop. Can you tell him to come back to the manor when he’s finished?”

“Of course,” Andrew replies, watching Eggsy idly flip through the assorted ties.

“Good. Percival and his niece have arrived here quite a long time ago.” Merlin’s tone carries much rebuke, and with a click, signs off.

 _Ah, yes, the test,_ Andrew thinks, then hangs up the phone. _Good luck to him, then._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a reason why this bit is somewhat light. I'm sure you can guess what's up next!


	18. Chapter 18

Valentine and Gazelle’s trip to Royal Ascot yields surprisingly little intel. Some of the conversations go offline for a good few minutes, but when Harry contacts Lock and Co., they claim that their listening devices are tested regularly and that there’s no sign of outside interference meddling—unless Valentine took off his hat and placed it in a separate, quieter area.

It is possible that Valentine, who is a technological genius in his own right and had clear suspicions about Harry would have discovered the bug, but for now, Harry steps away from his laptop and stretches, easing the stiffening muscles in his back. He’s changed into something more comfortable—slacks and a cardigan, multiple washings and age having made it soft yet less warm. On his desk is a glass of water, untouched, and a few of the files he’d been allowed to take home to study. 

“Well, it’s come to a point where listening in appears almost useless,” Merlin says. “For now, I suggest you go and review what intel you’ve collected, and perhaps make lunch if you didn’t have any.”

“Is the test starting soon?” Harry asks.

He hasn’t really expected Merlin to tell him, but still is disappointed when he simply says, a bit coolly, “Try to take your mind off of it, Galahad. I’ll tell you if Valentine starts saying something important.”

Harry sighs, then pulls off his glasses, slipping them into the right pocket of his trousers. Perhaps he should mix himself a drink.

His nerves are a bit on high, and who can blame him? After last night, he’d persuaded Eggsy to put on some pyjamas and go to bed, then found himself quite unable to sleep soundly. His mind had been on Eggsy, glancing around in awe of the artifacts as they moved from room to room; Eggsy, nearly leaning against him while watching one of Harry’s guilty pleasures; Eggsy, never quite being able to stop grinning, grinning wider when he started to dance to Glen Miller.

And, of course, Eggsy, unabashed and bold, completely nude in his office. Harry must have tried to force words past his lips, telling Eggsy to stop, to not take it this far, but could not. He could not staring at the beads of water that ran freely down his bare skin, the moles dotting near the small of his back, the fingers that wrapped around his cock.

He wanted to push himself up and off his chair and take over, his hands replacing Eggsy’s, but couldn’t. Somehow, in his mind, he’d reasoned that actually touching Eggsy was overstepping his promise to himself. Looking was not.

But it had flown out the window, touching Eggsy, over his heart, fingers still damp with Eggsy’s saliva. Looking back, he hadn’t been sure why he’d done it. It could have been because he didn’t just want to take, didn’t want just Eggsy to do this. A gentleman never allowed his lover to leave the room without pleasure, after all.

There’s no excuse, looking back. He’d _wanted_ , and he’d kissed Eggsy with little regard for the consequences. It had been unwise, foolhardy. Eggsy is not yet an agent—

But the possibility is so close. He imagines Eggsy coming back here, flushed in elation, and Harry making him a drink—something light, of course, for the afternoon—and getting some food into Eggsy, as he doubts that he’d eaten since breakfast. Of course, when the bespoke suit is finished, they could go on missions together, as is tradition for mentors and their candidates.

But they wouldn’t be just that, Harry hopes. He can still remember the touch of Eggsy’s lips on his, and every time he does, he remembers his broken promise, to himself, to Lee…

His glasses chime, and Harry sits up, opening his comms. Merlin must have found something or had just finished the test—

“Galahad,” Arthur says. It’s rare for Arthur to contact him through the glasses and even rarer to contact him at home.

“Arthur? Has something happened at HQ?”

“Nothing life-threatening,” Arthur reassures, then his tone turns cool. “Hasn’t your candidate been arrested for stealing a car?”

“He was cleared of the charges,” Harry says, and Arthur is well aware of that. “Why?” If this somehow disqualifies him, he’s going to have words with Arthur—how he should have informed him before Eggsy pushed himself for months to get this far, how he cannot take a fair victory away from him, how candidates had done worst in their pasts—

“Your candidate threw quite the fit when he failed the test,” Arthur says disapprovingly, and it takes everything from Harry to not make a sound or slide back in his seat. “I suggest you reel him in and persuade him to return my car, as well as talk to him about pointing guns at a superior.”

“I apologize for Eggsy’s actions.” It costs Harry an enormous effort to say this. Eggsy has been, so far, the model candidate—quick to learn, determined and persistent, and not prone to petty pranks in order to bolster his dominance. “I will find him.”

“You should.” It’s clear from Arthur’s tone that he also expects an apology. “We will also discuss your choices the next time you arrive at HQ. Good day.”

With that dismissal and the cold click of the dropped connection, Harry snatches his tablet and begins tapping. Merlin’s not the only one who knows about hacking, and it takes no time to locate Arthur’s personal cab. It’s heading towards the Black Prince.

Every cab is bugged in case of an incident, so Harry’s able to listen in. His mind feels numb and sharp all at once. How could have this happened? How could have Eggsy done this, thrown everything away—

“Tell your muppets to go inside, then I'll get out,” Eggsy’s saying, without a bluff in his voice, and Harry hears someone laugh. “Go on, lads,” the voice replies. “It'll be two hits. Me hitting him, him hitting the floor.”

Is Eggsy honestly starting a fight? Right on the street?

There’s a click of the car door unlocking, and with a quick series of taps, Harry rolls up the windows, locks the door once more, and begins steering the cab away.

“What are you doing?” Eggsy demands. There’s frantic slapping, hand hard against the wheel, voice ragged with anger and desperation. “No, no, _no_!” Harry stiffens his resolve, heading downstairs to unlock the front door. He doesn’t know if Eggsy knows for sure that it’s him steering the car, but it’ll be obvious once Stanhope Mews begins coming into view.  

When Eggsy hits the dashboard, protesting, “Come _on_ , bruv, he hit my mum!,” Harry crushes the relief in his chest— _he hadn’t simply tracked down a random person as an outlet for his anger—_ and goes back to his office, checking his tablet to see how close the car is. Even if he’d known it had been Eggsy’s stepfather, Eggsy’s still needed _here_.  

It’s too late to change things. He has a hundred things he wants to say, and all of them are crawling up his throat and lay heavily on his tongue, bitter as an arsenic pill. He’s disappointed—disappointed in his failure, disappointed in Eggsy going back to life not meant for him, disappointed in bloody Arthur’s clear victory.

There’s no turning back.

Walking out on the balcony to make sure Eggsy doesn’t make a break for it as soon as the doors unlock, Harry watches as Eggsy step out with a withering look in his direction, then head for the front door.

The door rattles as Harry’s just coming down the stairs. He feels almost vulnerable in this sweater, soft and pliant, and when Eggsy marches in, gaze baleful and sulky, Harry lashes out before Eggsy can.

“You threw away your biggest opportunity for a fucking dog? And then you humiliate me by stealing my boss's car.”

Eggsy’s quick to retaliate: “You shot a dog just to get a fucking job?”

“Yes, I did.” Harry turns to the loo, unlocking the door that had been closed during Eggsy’s twenty-four hours. “And Mr. Pickle here reminds me of that every time I take a shit!”

He’s shown Mr. Pickle to others before and has enjoyed their reactions, shocked and open-mouthed, but this now is not funny at all. Eggsy looks disgusted, eyes horrified as he looks up at the glass eyes staring back at him solemnly. “You shot your dog and had it stuffed? You fucking _freak_.”

Harry pretends this doesn’t hurt, then reveals how Mr. Pickle had not, in fact, been shot and how the tests had been complete ruses.

The more he lashes out, the more he realizes he’s not just angry at Eggsy. He’s angry at himself, for his foolishness, for his lack of foresight. How could he have hoped? How could he have not perceived this? He’d seen the footage, seen Eggsy swerve to miss a mangy fox in the road. How could he have thought that Eggsy would be less objectionable over a tiny, shivering pug he’d plucked from the kennel?

But how could have Eggsy not put together the patterns? Of course, he couldn’t have known about Amelia, but what about the parachutes, the collapsing train tracks?

And how could have Eggsy—how could he have allowed Harry to let down his guard, enough to…enough to—

 “Limits must be tested,” Harry finds himself saying, as if on autopilot. “A Kingsman only condones  
the risking of a life to save another.”

His lecture does Eggsy no good. Instead, Eggsy raises his chin, then snaps, “Like my dad saved your life, even though your fuck-up cost his? Or have you got him stuffed here and all?”

The guilt of sixteen years rushes back, and for one terrible second, Harry thinks that Eggsy had held onto this resentment for months, even years, and who can blame him? His mistake in recruiting Lee had cost Eggsy a future, and despite what Harry had done, Eggsy’s still heading down the same path as he’d been on months ago of his own fault, of his own failure.

And how could have Eggsy thrown _this_ back in his face, after what they’ve done?

“Can't you see that everything I've done has been about trying to repay him?”

Eggsy looks stricken, but, almost too quickly, vanishes like a flash of lightning. Looking away, his expression turns cold, defiant, resigned.

 _You have to apologize,_ Harry thinks immediately, but the old rush of pride curls around his heart. Harry has never apologized first. A gentleman would, but it’s so tiring to be a gentleman.

His glasses chime once more, and praying it won’t be Arthur again, Harry takes them out of his pocket and puts them on.

Thankfully, it’s Merlin, but Harry’s relief quickly sours when he hears Valentine outlining his plan.

There’s no time. He has to be an agent now.

“Merlin, get the plane ready.”

“Will do.”

Eggsy’s imploring now: “Harry, I'm so sorry, I'm gonna do whatever—”

“You should be. You just stay right there. I'll sort this mess out when I get back.”

Harry immediately turns away, thumping up the stairs and closing his bedroom door behind him. His hands are steady when laying out his suit, and he allows himself not to think of anything else beyond tying a perfect Windsor knot and buttoning up his jacket. He does not worry about grabbing a signet ring or the Rainmaker he’d taken from Fitting Room Three years ago; the plane will be stocked, and if needed, Eggsy can use the Rainmaker to defend himself.

For a moment, his concentration wavers. He doesn’t know exactly what Valentine’s planning, only that the SIM cards are likely involved, along with exploding chips inserted into people’s heads. Eggsy does not have one, and his phone is still locked up where Merlin keeps the candidates’ personal possessions.

And very likely, Valentine had been responsible for Lancelot’s death, where he’d been investigating mercenaries using biological weaponry, which had been the cause of insurgents turning on one another, cannibalism and violence…

The celebrities and politicians disappearing, along with Valentine, with his own suspicions about Harry’s cover, seeing Eggsy’s face in the shop…

Eggsy could be in danger.

He could contact Merlin and tell him to keep an eye on Eggsy, but with Arthur around, it’s likely Eggsy will be booted out back onto the street without any protection. No, the safest place for Eggsy is here, with a state-of-the-art security system and a Rainmaker and—

His laptop.

He rushes into the office, typing his password and changing the browser settings. He does not have a house phone, and Merlin will kill him if he gave Eggsy his spare pair of glasses, so the only way for him to contact Eggsy if something goes wrong is through the laptop. He works quickly, trusting his fingers to land on the right keys, and leaves the door open before rushing back down the stairs.

Eggsy’s waiting for him at the front door. “Harry, please, wait—“

“There’s food in the refrigerator. Don’t go home.” Not until this is sorted out, not until Harry knows Valentine’s plan for certain, not until Dean’s rage had passed. “If I find that you’ve stepped out of this house, there will be consequences.”

Eggsy’s glare comes back in full force, his fists clenching at his sides. “You can’t tell me what to—“

“It’s for your own safety.” Harry looks at him, mentally pleading with him to listen. “If you want to contact me, go to my office and get on my computer. I’ve allowed you access. You’ll be able to talk to me or type a message, and it will transmit to here.” He taps the frame of his glasses.

“Why can’t I go? Shouldn’t I return the car or—”

“Don’t worry about it. Stay here until I come back, or I contact you and tell you can go.” Harry wants so badly to touch him, but it won’t be welcome, not at a time like this. “Eggsy, do you trust me?”

Eggsy only stares at him for too long; Harry has to go, has to go and see what Valentine’s plan is, then put a stop to it. The hopes for Lancelot might have been dashed, and he might have ruined things between them, but he won’t allow Eggsy to come into danger.

Grudgingly, to Harry’s relief, Eggsy nods. “All right,” he says, “but you’re going to have to explain when you get back.”

“I will.” Harry wants to tell him more, force the apology that’s lying stubbornly in his chest out, but his glasses beep again, and he can hear the cab running out front. “I have to go. Please—”

“Stay here,” Eggsy finishes. “I get it." He then steps aside, hesitantly craning his neck to look up at him. "Just..save the world, yeah?”

"I'll do my best," Harry says, then opens the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking about moving updates to Saturdays so I don't keep running late on the Friday updates. But don't worry, this fic will go on!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...this is a late chapter, and I do apologize. I wrote three chapters and felt as I was just rehashing the movie, so I decided to do a little time skip, thus...goodbye to those chapters. This semester's kicking my ass, but I definitely want to finish this fic, so hang on with me!

When Eggsy was at that computer as the world slipped from his fingers and shattered, he’d thought, _This is how Mum must have felt._

His throat had been raw, even though he’d screamed once and not since then. In a movie, he would have dropped to his knees, beat the ground with his fists, knocked down the frames and knick-knacks and glasses in agony. He would have shouted again, released the overwhelming pain out, shuddering against the walls and windows, spilling out into the street. He would have curled up in one of the beds afterwards, pulled the covers over his head, and tried to stop being awake.

But he didn’t.

He’d realized soon after that he had to find out what came next. Had to find out if Kingsman saw what he saw. Had to figure out what he could do-- _if_ he could do something--to stop what was coming.

Eggsy hadn’t considered the after.

But now, months later, he’s here.

Harry’s dead.

And that’s just a fact of life now.

He gets up in the morning, sliding out of Harry’s bed and Harry’s robe. He slips on the suit, not the one Harry made for him, but a different one not riddled with bullet holes or slashes from Gazelle’s blades. He eats a quick breakfast and leashes up JB, who plays at the manor with the other dogs while Eggsy is at work. He takes the cab to the shop, then the tube to the manor, pulling out the lint-roller beneath the seat and his tablet to keep up with both world and Kingsman updates. He has missions, mostly searching and destroying Valentine’s other companies with all his research in it. Occasionally, he brings back files and hard drives for Merlin, hoping that the data found can help prevent something like V-Day from happening again.

And he comes home, home to the mausoleum that Harry had left him, then starts it all over again.

* * *

Merlin looks visibly tired today, his face drawn and eyes weary, but his voice is still crisp and sharp when he orders Eggsy to sit and sift through his new mission dossier. The normalcy of it helps Eggsy, helps him when he looks at the same Merlin with his dark woolen jumpers and tablet in hand. Merlin’s the anchor and captain and crew that keeps Kingsman afloat, and Eggsy’s never been more grateful for the stability Merlin provides, even if he doesn’t envy the man for being the quartermaster, a field handler, and Arthur all in one.

“Your mission,” Merlin now says, “is a little different. You and Roxy have worked very hard to purge Valentine’s resources and data these past few months.” _Months_ , Eggsy thinks, has it really been months? “Now, we’re focusing on his allies that managed to survive.” He brings up a file on the screen hanging above the fireplace, the same that matches the one in Eggsy’s folder. “As you know, we triggered the implant chips in Valentine’s followers.”

Eggsy mentally winces. Yeah, he remembers--colorful lights and smoke and brain matter, fascinating and terrible all at once--and in an ugly way, knows that Valentine did their job for Kingsman without knowing it. Nearly all of Valentine’s employees and sponsors had gotten that chip, so there were hardly any stragglers to hunt down. And when the investigations into Valentine were underway, most people who helped Valentine in some way were found out and condemned for contributing to the mysterious rage that swept through the world.

“Mr. Lellouche is the one who developed Gazelle’s prosthetics years back, and Valentine kept him in his employ to help them develop new weapons. It turns out that Valentine sent him on a mission to research how to make these.” Merlin taps his tablet again, and up come handwritten notes and sketches. “Apparently, Valentine was fascinated about triggering the primal instincts. This device will shut them down, make them dull and lifeless.”

“For after V-Day,” Eggsy guesses, “for the objectors.”

“Yes,” Merlin confirms. “Enough to subdue, but not enough to damage their capabilities. He wanted people hard at work in the aftermath.”

Eggsy shakes his head. “We’re dealing with...brainwashing?”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that, but essentially, yes.” Merlin looks at Eggsy. “He’s holed up under a different name in Russia. No extradition treaties, and no Kingsman branch there. Your mission is to stop whatever he’s doing, and bring the notes back.”

“And Lellouche?”

Merlin pauses. “If you can bring him back here, Kingsman can make sure he answers for his crimes. But if you can’t…”

 _Kill him._ “I understand.”

“Do you accept this mission, Galahad?”

The code name no longer makes him flinch, but there’s still a tight squeeze in his lungs as he says, “Yeah, I do. When do I get shipped out?”

“Lellouche does not seem like he’s operating under any sort of deadline, but it’s best to get there as soon as possible.” Merlin then clears his throat, and an image of Eggsy takes over the screen. In the picture, his hair is lighter, eyes a dim brown, neck displaying a mole. The glasses perched on his nose look flimsy, cheaply made. “Your alias will be to pose as a local citizen--street sweeper, janitor, busboy, homeless person--you choose. Someone he will think will be easy to disappear.”   

“I’m guessing there’s a string of missing persons in a certain area of Russia?”

“There is.”

“And…” Eggsy hesitates, not knowing if what he’s about to say comes from watching too many movies. “Tell me you don’t think this is some human experimentation shit.”

Merlin’s silent.

Eggsy sits back. “The _fuck_ , Merlin,” he breathes.

“We’re collecting evidence that Valentine has amassed...specimens for experimentation. Rats, mostly, but…” Merlin shakes his head. “We’ve found some unaccounted for former employees, some missing persons around the area but nothing substantial. It could all be coincidence.”

“But you don’t believe that.”

Merlin sighs, and for a moment, he looks very, very old. “No. Not since…”

The air in his lungs seem to hold as still as his heart. “Since what?” he asks, half not wanting to know, but not being able to starve off the curiousity.  

“You may hear it from Lancelot or Percival, so I’ll tell you, but you must promise not to bring it up to anyone.” Merlin takes off his glasses, rubbing his bridge of his nose, and Eggsy sits in place, waiting. “During our clean-up, we found...we found Lancelot--the previous Lancelot--in one of Valentine’s labs.”

Revulsion twists in his stomach, but there’s something else, another possibility that’s treacherously bubbling through the surface. “Harry,” he breathes, a question in his voice, heart racing to keep in time with his thoughts. _No, no..._

This is even worse than Harry being left out on the pavement for the vultures. Valentine having Harry’s body covered somewhere, ready for investigation, stripped underneath a thin, white cloth. Or...or...doctors in white coats and clipboards and silver instruments probing his body, slicing him open, taking notes with blue latex gloves...no, no, not Harry, not to Harry…

“No,” Merlin’s voice cuts through his thoughts, and Eggsy looks up at him like a floundering man being pulled from a raging current. “No, Eggsy,” Merlin says gently. “We haven’t found any trace of him in the labs. We try to recover our fallen agents, you see, as a body can tell a lot about a person. We normally wipe their record when they’re missing for a--”

“Did you?” Eggsy interrupts.  

Merlin pauses. “No,” he admits. “I’ve hidden it for now, but that does not mean anything.”

 _It doesn’t?_ Eggsy wants to ask, but only nods, trying to crush down the stirring hope, a dangerous thing, especially for someone like him.

THe quartermaster looks at him for a long while before asking, “Do you remember that test? The one that you refused as a candidate?”

There’s a pit of shame forming in his stomach, another test he couldn’t pass. “Yeah.”

“The drug had strong hallucinogenic properties,” Merlin explains, making eye contact with him, and Eggsy stares stubbornly back, chin raised. “It was supposed to test what you had to lose, and what you would do once you did.”

Yes, Eggsy could see that playing out. Merlin could have convinced him that his mum and Daisy were in danger. He doesn’t know what Roxy’s big fear was, but can guess Charlie’s pretty well. Money. Status. Something petty like that.

Harry had said that he would have passed, he remembers. He could have stood it. _Strong-minded_.

Eggsy’s pretty sure what Merlin’s digging at, but only looks down at the table, at his file, at his hand still holding one of the photos of his target. It had been hard to get up the day after V-Day, his body aching all over from the bruises from the bullets and the cuts that Gazelle managed to make. Tilde had ridden home with them, having changed into a set of spare clothes on the plane. She’d said nothing about Eggsy’s lack of performance, only chatting a bit with Roxy, who apparently knew some Swedish. Sometimes, she’d stare off into the sky, mute, with hands folded tightly in her lap.

Roxy had been silent, too, after someone from the French branch had managed to reach Merlin through the glasses and told them that Percival was in their medical wing. There was no need to pick him up, she’d insisted, as he was about to undergo surgery, but could his next of kin confirm some things for them?

Eggsy couldn’t call his mum on the plane, so he had sat there, refreshing the list of the dead being reported in their area and praying that he won’t see any familiar names--besides Dean, of course. But he doubted--correctly--Dean was dead. The shitters always survived.  

He now waits for Merlin to tell him that he'd passed, that he was taking this well, that he'd told him all of this because he'd thought Eggsy could handle it, something different from the long, searching looks in the corridors or the brief asides about speaking to one of Kingman's specialists, but the quartermaster remains silent. Defenses, always at ready, die on his tongue, unable to rouse without prodding comments, and all he has left is for himself, sitting there mutely with his glasses and parted hair and bespoke suit. _I'm fine. I'm all right. I'm a Kingsman._

"All right, then," Merlin finally says, then turns off the content of the overhead screen with a swipe on the tablet's screen. "Good day, Galahad, and please let me know when you're ready to go."

With a nod back, Eggsy picks up his file and leaves, closing the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now to work on Fidelity ;)


	20. Chapter 20

The next days are filled with preparations: studying the general area of where he’s hanging about, sitting in a few make-up sessions with Kingsman’s top specialists, researching his mark, going through a psychological brief, and brushing up on his Russian.

Not for the first time, he wonders why he chose one of the hardest languages in the world for his Kingsman language requirement. Roxy, already one step ahead of him, is polishing her German with Amelia, but has also taken up Russian for both moral support and for “fun.” He loves her, but sometimes, he thinks Roxy’s ideas of what count as fun are in line with a sixty-year-old university professor’s.

Eggsy does admit, however, that Scrabble nights are more enjoyable than he thought, once alcohol was applied.

Unfortunately, vodka, according to Roxy, is not a good conduit to learning a new language. During class, she creates palm cards of various words, cracking open their textbook to struggle valiantly with the grammar, while Eggsy gets corrected numerous times on his pronunciation by Kay, who looks as if he’d not only seen the Berlin Wall fall, but also was around for its construction.

“I can’t,” Eggsy mutters, once Kay gets up to go use the loo. “My throat must be arranged differently from his.”

Roxy pats his arm sympathetically, then looks around for signs of Kay’s return. He’s urged them to speak in Russian as much as possible. Considering most of their vocabulary is limited to pleasantries, ordering at a restaurant, and telling the time, they spend more time looking up sentences on their tablets instead of actually speaking the language. “Let’s just practice,” she says, then switches to Russian: “ _Hello, how are you_?”

“ _Good_.” Roxy pauses, waiting for him to continue, but Eggsy has to pull up the dictionary app again before continuing, “ _Ah! The weather is nice today, yes_?”

“ _No, it is raining outside_.”

Eggsy rolls his eyes, then tries, “ _Yes, it is raining. Pouring down…very big, very much.”_

_“Was it difficult to drive here?”_

“ _Yes. I got into a…”_ Eggsy sighs, ignoring Roxy’s amused smirk as he taps as quickly as he can into the translation box. “ _Traffic jam. People were shouting, ‘fuck you! Get out of the fucking way, you son of a dog!’”_

They both hold in their laughter for a total of two seconds before collapsing, Roxy shaking her head, hand over her mouth.

“Let me guess, Eggsy,” she says dryly, “out of all the words in Russian to know fluently, you know all the swear words.”

“Not _all_ of them,” Eggsy replies, then sighs. “It’s just…when I open my mouth, the words get scrambled. I mean, I can recognize them if they’re in front of me. Sort of. But speaking? Rox, I’m a hopeless case. I’ll have to write down what I want to say on some slip of paper and slip it to someone and pray I know enough Russian to read what they write back.”

“Well, you’re not posing as some scholar.”

“Thank god for that,” Eggsy says with a snort of laughter. “I can’t even talk about D—that bloke who wrote _Crime and Punishment_ in English, let alone Russian.”

“It’ll come one day,” Roxy reassures him. “Besides, it’s difficult to be able to talk in academic speak in any language. Linguistically, conversational comes first—”

“A-hem.” Both of them startle at the sight of Kay towering over them, arms crossed and eyebrows raised.

“Oh,” Roxy says, then quickly, in Russian, “ _Sorry_.”

Eggsy also mutters his apologies, and with a sigh, gets back to work.

* * *

 

Another session with Merlin about preparing for his mission involves tea and ginger biscuits. The Round Table is still a rectangle, which Eggsy is still a bit annoyed about, but as long as Merlin allows snacks, everything is mostly all right with the world.

As Eggsy munches on his tenth biscuit—rumor has it that Bors bakes them himself—Merlin goes over the mission again: the drop-off, the undercover stint, conversation topics, and the new and cheap-looking glasses. They look flimsy but deceptively strong; Merlin already demonstrated by flicking them to the floor and stomping on them with a shiny oxford.

“Finally, onto your Russian,” Merlin now says, then looks down at his tablet, where Eggsy can see just a glimpse of a progress report before Merlin tugs it away, frowning. “Kay says your progress is…”

“Not good?” Eggsy finishes, crumbling a biscuit in between his fingers.

“Well, it’s progressing. Slowly.” Merlin types something into his tablet. “I still don’t know why you picked Russian.”

“I like a challenge,” Eggsy says dryly, leaning back in his chair. He thinks about putting his feet up on the table, the way he used to annoy his teachers, but one look at Merlin’s face makes him decide that it’s not worth it.

“Ah,” Merlin says, as if he doesn’t quite believe him for some reason.

“What?”

There’s a moment’s pause before Merlin speaks again—this time, a bit more hesitantly. “I thought that it was because of Harry.”

Eggsy sits up straighter. “Harry spoke Russian?” he asks, already adding the tidbit to his mental folder.

“Yes,” Merlin says, a bit softer. “Bit of a polyglot.”

There’s so much he still doesn’t know about Harry. He wants more than the video footage of Harry’s missions, more than the surveillance of the mansion, more than knights’ passing _he would have considered you a worthy successor._ Merlin is the one with all of that, but he can’t excavate the man for his own selfish sense of mourning because Merlin’s keeping it together, not falling apart. He should do the same.

 _You had nothing with him, nothing compared to Merlin_ , he reminds himself. _Nothing_.

There is literally nothing left of Harry, except for how Eggsy has held onto the memory of him, has tried to emulate him as best he could, like a living shrine to the man he loved. He can only remember Harry as Eggsy knows him, which is only a facet of who Harry truly was.

The other knights and Harry never really were best friends, James is gone, Percival is still tracking drug traffickers in Cambodia, and Roxy didn't know Harry at all.

And Eggsy can't talk to Merlin because he feels too guilty; Merlin knew Harry for years and while he has not yet faltered, the stoicism that once defined Merlin has gone fragile and Merlin has retreated within himself in a way Eggsy doesn't feel right trying to pry apart for his own sake. He didn't know Harry, not very well. Not like he wanted to. And yet he missed him with every facet of his being and yet it doesn't feel like near enough. And it feels like too much, like he shouldn't grieve a man he barely knew.

Eggsy feels as if he doesn't have the right to mourn Harry so bone deep. Harry and Merlin had known each other for longer than Harry had been alive. Merlin is the _real_ griever here. Why does Eggsy feel so strongly about a man he's only known for a few months—and most of those months were in a coma! They only had a few conversations, only handfuls, and he's still gripping them as if they were years' worth.

“Galahad,” Merlin says, and Eggsy raises his head, the title still strange to his ears. “Is there anything you’d like to discuss?”

“No,” Eggsy says, then stands up.

Merlin seems almost disappointed, but only gives him a slight nod. “Until tomorrow, then,” he says.

“Until tomorrow,” Eggsy echoes, before pushing open the heavy oak door and walking out.

* * *

 

He stops by his mum’s house that evening, yard crowned with flowers and vegetables. It had been his mum’s idea, something she’d liked to do before Dean came along, though Daisy cares little about what’s growing in the garden and more about yanking them up by the roots, splattering dirt all over her clothes and laughing.

The keys turn easily in the lock, and Eggsy calls out, “Mum, I’m here!” before quickly shutting the door. JB’s waiting for him, wagging his tail and leaping up to paw at his legs. He knows from one of the kennel people that he shouldn’t encourage this bad habit, but since JB is only a few pounds heavier than a cat, it’s not on his list of priorities.

“Eggsy!” his mum exclaims, then immediately enfolds him in her arms. She’s cut her hair up to her shoulders, with a set of pearl studs on her ears, since Daisy likes to tug the hoops she likes to wear. Eggsy notices she smiles more, freer with laughing, too. “God, I swear you’ve gotten taller!”

“It’s just the shoes, Mum,” Eggsy says, hugging her back. “How’ve you been? How’s Dais?”

“Both of us are doing good,” she says, beckoning him inside the front room. Daisy’s currently laying on her stomach on the floor, coloring what looks like a prancing horse and, of all things, a knight. She waves at him, JB taking that as a motion to come bounding over, and Daisy squeals when JB starts scuffing up her picture with his paws. “Miss you a lot, too.”

“JB, come here!” Eggsy calls. “Leave Daisy alone.”

The pug obeys, but immediately begins running in neat circuits around the room, Daisy laughing as he begins to howl his pathetic little heart out. Eggsy groans, but his mum’s snickering, hand over her mouth.

“Reminds me of an old dog Lee and I had,” she says, a trace of nostalgia in her voice. “He used to do that. Maybe JB’s a reincarnate of some sort.”

The dates don’t really match up, but Eggsy smiles anyway.

“Dinner’s ready,” she then says, gesturing to the table, silverware all set out. “Italian. Eggplant parmesan, spaghetti and meatballs, and some cannolis.”

“Shit, that’s a lot,” Eggsy says, whistling at the spread. “You made all of this yourself?”

“Yes,” she says, then winks. “The meatballs were frozen, though, and the cannolis are from a bakery.”

“Food is food,” he says, kissing her cheek. “All sounds good, Mum, thanks.”

They all sit down, his mum boosting Daisy up into her little high chair, and tuck in. Everything’s delicious, and Eggsy and his mum talk about her new job as a secretary for a kid’s daycare, Ryan’s mum’s new boyfriend, Daisy’s latest antics, and a little bit about the news. It’s moments like these that Eggsy treasures, especially now that Dean is out of their lives for good.

He may or may not have pulled a few strings for Dean to get kicked out of the flat. Yeah, he’s sure that Poodle or Rottie or the others would take him in, but Eggsy’s had enough of that arsehole living in what was once his and his mum’s—and his dad’s, too, once upon a time.

Finally, when they’ve broken out the cannolis, Daisy busily sucking the cream out of the shell like a straw, Eggsy tells his mum that he’s going away for a while to Russia, and for a few minutes, and for a few minutes, his mum looks as if she’s going to protest before asking, “Well, what are you doing there?”

“Some government official wants a suit,” Eggsy lies. “For that state visit with the American President.”

“Don’t know why he’s putting in the effort, though,” his mum replies dryly, and they both laugh. Daisy laughs too, even though Eggsy’s sure she doesn’t know exactly what they’re saying. She laughs more these days, unburdened by the presence of her father—sperm donor, really—yelling at her to be quiet, and come to think of it, so does his mum.

“I love you, Mum,” he suddenly says, then throws his arms around her, squeezing tightly.

“Silly boy,” she murmurs in his ear hugging him back. “I love you, too.”

* * *

 

When he gets back home, Eggsy immediately heads for the office.

It still looks as the same as it did months ago, save for a pair of trainers strewn across the floor and a stack of papers on the desk. The same newspaper headlines are still up. He’d ripped the front page of _The Sun_ on V-Day, but hadn’t put up any of his own. Why count the days when you’re trying to forget them?

He doesn’t know what sets him off: the rows of front covers, the empty chair, the silence of the house. But he’s collapsed on the floor, sobbing into his hands.

There are no wails that could be heard through the window, no fists beating against the floor, no pleading to an unknown deity. It’s strangely quiet, as if he’d cried for days and had used up his tears. There’s nothing much more than shaking shoulders and wet cheeks and hands, chest aching with each heaving breath.

When he finally stops, he finds himself kneeling on the floor, the same spot where he’d stripped in front of Harry, and wipes at his eyes and nose with the sleeve of his shirt.

What good did that really do him? It’s not like he’s free of the guilt or the grief, nor the latent creature that’s got its claws in his chest. Part of him fears that he’ll never be able to rid himself of it, but another fears what will be left of him if he succeeds.

No, he thinks. No, he won’t do that again.

* * *

 

The next morning, he gets ready to board the plane, gear and clothes all packed, glasses on. Merlin’s come to inspect everything and see him off, giving an approving nod and looking up at Eggsy, about to step over the threshold.

“Ready?” Merlin asks.

Eggsy nods, the image of a perfect Kingsman, stoic and calm. “Ready,” he replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, but I'm slowly catching up to my fics. The next update will be a much shorter wait. I swear.


End file.
